Chapter II: Book I: The Outcast (2)

"And that one there, behind all the rest," she went on, bitterly. "Can you see who that is? Your own brother, Ung-Joel, it is. He's done no more harm as yet than leaving his father and mother to perish for lack of a helping hand. The times I've begged and prayed of him to come out here and help us, but he'd never hear. There, lad, that's the men that have come to bid you go with them--but you won't; you can't...."

But as she spoke, Sven rose to his feet, gentle and forgiving as ever, ready to submit and suffer.

The men laughed again.

"That's right, my son," said Olaus, who was evidently the leader. "Just as well to come with a good grace. You'd have little chance against the lot of us."

But Mor Elversson was not the one to give up without doing all in her power. With a rapid movement she grasped the body of the snake that Olaus still held in his hand, wrested it from him, and flung it into the next room, placing herself before the door.

At that moment the outer door opened, and Joel came hurrying in.

"What's here?" he said, looking round. "What are you rioting here about? What do you want with Sven?"

Two of the men had sprung forward to force Mor Thala aside from the doorway; two of the others had gripped Sven by the shoulders and were thrusting him before them.

Without a moment's hesitation the old man flung himself upon them.

"Out with you! Leave the boy alone," he cried.

And suddenly Sven Elversson was himself again. Something within him was whispering: "Now, now is the time! Father and mother are fighting on your side."

"Ung-Joel," he cried to his brother, who was still keeping away behind the rest. "Open the door there, quick!"

The boy obeyed instinctively; it was as if he could not disregard an order given in that house. In a moment Sven had gripped Olaus by the middle, lifted him off his feet, and flung him out.

Corfitzson rushed forward to the rescue, but found himself gripped in turn by a pair of strong arms, lifted, and flung out after his leader.

Then it was that Ung-Joel stepped forward and stood by his brother's side. There was a moment of wild tumult, and the place was cleared.

Ung-Joel bolted the door behind his former comrades. Then, solemnly, he stepped up to his brother and offered his hand.

"How did you manage it?" he asked, after a pause, with frank admiration. "I'll get you to teach me that throw."

The elder brother's face was flushed with the fight; his look of patient resignation was gone.

"You've given them a lesson, you may be sure," went on the younger. "They'll know better than to trouble you again. But what made you take it so patiently all this time, when you're a match for the worst of them?"

Now for the first time Sven Elversson lost his self-control. Sinking down in a chair, he buried his face in his hands.

"What's the use?" he cried, desperately. "How can I defend myself when all the time I hate myself more than any of them can ever do? Hate and loathe myself worse than you can ever think. Horrible, horrible. No one knows as well as I do what it is I've done--what it is I've sinned against. Is it any comfort to me to stop the mouths of a drunken crowd when all the time I've that on my mind that's ghastlier than all?"

THE "NAIAD"

A FEW days after Christmas, Ung-Joel came back to Grimön with a message from Olaus, to ask if Sven would take a share in the herring fishery on board the motor-boat _Naiad_, belonging to his crew.

"He says it's hardly likely you could get taken on with any other crew," said Ung-Joel; "but seeing that you're my brother, I was to tell you. They'll not be the best of company, I doubt, that sail with Olaus."

Mor Elversson declared at once that it was out of the question; Sven should never have any dealings with any of them. But his father thought otherwise.

"It wouldn't be a bad thing, perhaps, if Sven tried to pick up the ways of the fishery on the coast here," he said. "And it's true enough he'd hardly get taken on with any other crew."

"Joel! How can you talk so!" cried his wife. "Who knows what they've been plotting and planning now, to send for him like that. Some new mischief, I'll be bound."

"Why, I only said 'twas a pity Sven shouldn't have a part in the fishery," said Joel, mildly.

But Sven remembered his father's words on Christmas Eve, and it came into his mind now that perhaps it was his wish to get him away from home.

"You can tell Olaus I'll come," he said to his brother.

"And thank him for offering. I'll go over to Fårön myself as soon as I can."

"Why not come back with me now?" said Ung-Joel. "Then you can get the things you want at our store. There was a telegram in this morning that the herring are shoaling thick up at Smögen. By to-morrow they'll be getting away all about."

There was a hurry of preparation for a while, and then the two brothers set off, leaving Joel and Thala alone.

For a week or so they heard no news of Sven, then one Sunday Ung-Joel came out to visit them.

Mor Thala was eager to know how matters had gone with Sven and the crew--for all she knew, they might have killed him.

"I've heard nothing but what folk say," answered the boy. "And that's this. The crew of the _Naiad_ before counted one man that had helped to kill a child, and one that had starved an old woman to death, one that had burnt down a place, and one that never sold but what he'd stolen, and two that were fast drinking themselves to death--and now they'd got another to help, and that a man who'd eaten human flesh, so it would be hard to find a rougher crowd on one keel. I've heard nothing from Sven himself, but, from all accounts, he seems to be getting on all right with them."

"That's foolishness," said his mother. But for all her angry looks, she was glad to learn that no ill had come to Sven. "But don't forget as soon as you've word from Sven to come here and let us know. 'Tis the best you can do for your father and me."

A fortnight later, Ung-Joel came out to the island again.

"Here's what they're saying now," he began. "That the _Naiad_ men won't be able to stand much more of Sven. They say, here's the dirtiest, meanest, stinking little boat all along the coast getting gradually clean and workmanlike, the motor taken to working properly instead of going on strike when it's most needed, the rags of sails they used to help now and then been patched and put in order, the faded old flag done away with and a bright new one in its place and the name painted clean on the stern with all the letters in gold; the food on board getting that decent you wouldn't know but what you were on shore, and clean pots and pans in the galley. And the way folk look at it is this: the _Naiad_ men, they might at a pinch take any sort of scoundrel on board, but clean pots and pans and all the rest, it's more than they can put up with."

"Ah! you're making fun of me," said his mother. But it was plain to see that she was glad at heart. "And don't forget," she went on, "as soon as you've any word from Sven, come out and let us know. He's done no wrong, and we must know how it is with him, that he doesn't come to any harm."

But folk that live at Grimön have need of all their patience, waiting for news. All through another two weeks Mor Thala waited, before Ung-Joel came with news of his brother.

"I haven't seen him myself yet," he explained. "But I've heard what they say, that it can't be long now before there's an end of it with Sven Elversson and the _Naiad_ crew. It seems that Olaus--he's the skipper--has taken to seeing the men come on board to time, and more than once he's got his boat away with the rest of the fleet, instead of after, and got up in good time to the fishing grounds and made a fair haul. And what with the nets being sound and whole, instead of torn in parts and rotten the rest; when they bring up full catches, and the man at the windlass isn't dead drunk and tips the whole lot into the water alongside; when they're beginning to earn good money on the _Naiad_, why, it's plain that Olaus from Fårön and Corfitzson from Fiskebäck and Bertil from Strömsundet and Torsson from Iggenäs and Rasmussen and Helmfeldt won't stay long on board. They might bear with a man that's eaten human flesh, but to sail on a well-found ship and make good hauls like all the other crews, and earn good money--it's more than any of them have ever done before."

Mor Thala scolded him roundly for a fool that could never so much as speak one serious word, but she was pleased enough at the news he brought.

"You wait and see, it'll all be well yet," she said. "Eh, Joel, Joel--I wasn't meaning you, lad, but your father. He's surely the wisest man in all Bohuslän. He knew what he was doing when he let Sven go and take a share in that boat, he did."

A week or so later, Ung-Joel came in with a new report.

"I've not seen Sven myself," he said, "for the herring are keeping away up to the north this year. But I've heard what folk say. That when Olaus from Fårön goes spending money he's earned on doing up his house on shore, and Corfitzson from Fiskebäck puts his in the bank, as soon as it's paid him, and Bertil gets his wife a new dress, and Torsson buys a new boat, and Rasmussen and Hjelmfeldt start bringing home food for their wives and little ones--why, there must be something wrong with the _Naiad_ lot somewhere. They might take a man-eater with them on board and nothing surprising in that, but to see them now with a clean ship and decently at work and living almost like honest folk, it's more than any'd believe."

"I never heard your like for talking wicked nonsense," said Mor Thala, but she was happier than she cared to show. And she declared that all would go well with Sven in the end; folk would come to look at him differently before long.

"The trouble is," said Joel, "that folk have always looked on that one thing one way, and it's hard for any to see differently. And it won't be easy for him to win them. We must be thankful if we can but see that it's not too much for the lad himself."

A week or so later, the two brothers came sailing home to Grimön together. They looked ill at ease as they entered the house.

Neither mother nor father ventured to question Sven, but Mor Thala soon managed to get Ung-Joel by himself.

"Now what's happened?" she asked.

"Ay, what's happened," said Ung-Joel, bitterly. "Little use that Olaus and Corfitzson and all the rest of them have turned better than they've ever been before, and can boast of a clean ship and a good season and a fine price for their fish, and the money well looked after, when they can't set foot in their own house but they're met by crying womenfolk. What's a man to do, when his own wife comes and begs and prays him and says better go on in the old way, bad as it was, than work and share with one that's done dreadful things like Sven. Says a man can't go near one that's done things like that without getting such himself that none can bear the sight of him after. Houses put to rights and boats and dresses and food and decency and comfort--they'd give it all and gladly, to be free of the one ugly thought. When things turn that way, what can a man do but go to Sven himself and beg of him to take off his hand from off the ship and crew, and say he'd better go back to Grimön and stay there, where there's none that's likely to meet him and be the worse for it."

THE SCHOOLHOUSE

THAT spring, soon after Sven had come back from the herring fishery, old Joel Elversson was asked by the Priest at Applum if he would care to undertake the building of the new schoolhouse.

Joel had done a good deal of building work before in the parish, and so cheaply that he had made but little for himself. And this was perhaps the reason why he was chosen now, though many might well have thought him too old for the work.

As soon as Mor Thala heard of the proposal, she at once declared that Joel was no longer able to undertake work of such responsibility, and her husband did not altogether oppose her view. But he pointed out that it would be hard if the parish were forced to get in a stranger for the work. And he himself would gladly have had some share in building a new school for the children, who had for long had to put up with the old and dark and draughty building that served at present.

"You should see the plans," he said to Mor Thala. "The things they hit on nowadays to make all fine and easy. They'd no such contrivances in my young days."

"You're set on that building work yourself, that's plain to see," said his wife. "It's my belief you've promised to take it on already."

The old man looked embarrassed.

"I'd not have done it if it wasn't that I'd a grown son in the house," he said.

"But surely you should have asked him first," said his wife. So much foresight and sharpness on the part of her husband was a surprise to her. Sven had been going about for some days looking moody and depressed; it seemed impossible to get him to undertake any work at all.

"I don't think Sven would regret it if he did take to building work," said Joel. "A man that's to live in his own house ought to know a bit about timber and foundations and the like. But if he won't help me. I'll have to say I can't do it after all."

It was a strange thing to her that her husband should ever think of getting Sven to work on a building connected with the Church, in a place where the general ill-will against him seemed stronger than anywhere else.

Sven was present when they talked it over, but said nothing at first. He knew well enough what was in his father's mind; it was his one idea and aim to get him to move about among folk. As to the failure of the _Naiad_ cruise, Joel had merely said it had turned out far better than could be expected, and he had nothing but praise for his son. Sven himself had still but one desire, to hide himself away at home, but he felt now that his father would not permit him, until he had seen once more how impossible it was for his fellow men to forget the feeling of abhorrence with which they regarded him.

"I don't think Father ought to give it up now," he said. "I'll lend a hand gladly as far as I'm able."

Joel was highly pleased at this, and that very day he took Sven with him to make a round of visits to the others concerned: merchants, carpenters, masons, and workmen.

Almost against his will, Sven Elversson soon found himself keenly interested in the building, and his father let him take the lead. He was allowed to superintend the work, and to determine how it should be done. Grimön lies some distance from the mainland, and Sven did not care to waste so much time in journeys backward and forward, but lived close to the site while the work was in progress. Joel himself also began to tire of the everlasting trips from the island in to Applum, and for several weeks he stayed at home, leaving his son to take entire charge.

Whenever he went in to see how things were going, he invariably returned well pleased. His wife asked anxiously each time if there had been no expression of dissatisfaction among the Applum folk at Sven's taking over charge, but Joel was always able to reassure her.

"I met Israel Jonsson yesterday," he said, "the head of the council, and I asked him what he thought of the new schoolhouse. 'Well, Joel,' he said, 'I won't deny that we Applum folk were in two minds at first about getting your boy take over the work. But I think I can say now that both the school council and the parish council and all the rest would think twice about giving it elsewhere. When we see how he puts in granite under blocks instead of common stone, as it was thought, and find him building the walls of heavy timber, instead of thin planks that the architect thought would do, why, if there's any that bear him ill-will, they'd better put it in their pockets and do the sensible thing.'"

Mor Elversson began to understand now that Joel had accepted the contract solely and entirely in order to give Sven a chance of proving his worth and making friends. It was a kindly thought, she was forced to admit, but she was less confident now, and dared not believe it would succeed.

Next time Joel came back from the building site, her first question was whether Sven was still getting on, and if he had had no trouble with any of the people there.

"I'll not tell you what I think myself," answered Joel, "for you might not believe me. But I'll tell you word for word what Gunnar Markusson, that lives close by, said to me yesterday when I met him on the round:

"'I'll admit, Joel,' he says, 'that we were a bit uneasy in the parish about letting Sven Elversson take charge and build the new schoolhouse. But I will say now that, to my mind, the ratepayers would do well not to let their feelings run away with them, when it's a case of a public benefactor like Sven. He's putting in smoothed boards now, where we'd agreed we'd have to be content with unplanned wood. And he's using better paint than we'd reckoned on. He's roofing with tiles, instead of the tarred felt that was all we thought we could run to. And instead of cement steps at the entrance, he's making stone. It's this way with that boy of yours, that he'll have nothing but first-class work, and for all that it seems he's asking no more for the building than if he'd followed the plans from the first.'"

Mor Thala was overjoyed to hear that her boy was doing so well, but she felt nevertheless that the dreadful thing which haunted him was not to be so easily overcome.

Joel did not go over to the mainland again until September. He was away for several days, and when he returned, he brought Sven with him, and the news that the place was finished. The schoolhouse was built, and the inspection had taken place; the inspector could hardly find words to say how pleased he was with the result.

Mor Thala agreed that so far all was well. And, looking at her son, she felt that he looked like one released, from prison; she understood that he felt he had regained some little of the honour and respect he had lost.

And she was loth to spoil his pleasure, but as soon as she was alone with Joel, she asked if there really had been no one in all Applum who had made Sven feel he was not good enough for the work.

"There's none can say what folk think in their own minds," said Joel; "but I'll just tell you what the schoolmaster himself said to me yesterday, when I spoke to him after the opening.

"'There's no trusting to folk's gratitude,' he said, 'but if I was one of those whose children are to get their schooling in this new place, I'd show no unkindness to the man that built it. When you look at the hall there, the way he's chosen the best colours, and the neat and sound benches he's put up, the fine glass in the windows, well, it's a wonder how he could do it. And then all the fixtures in the _slöid_ room, and the kitchen, and heating pipes, and gymnasium fittings and all--it's plain 'twas a lover of children that settled it all. There's many might well wish to be children again just to go to school in the place Sven Elversson's built.'"

Mor Thala could not but be pleased at this, and was glad now to feel that all her anxiety had been unfounded.

THE STONEHILLS

SVEN ELVERSSON had been in to Göteborg to settle some accounts for building materials supplied for the schoolhouse, and came back by train. On arrival at the station nearest Applum, he found that the conveyance which was to have met him there had not come.

It was over ten miles to walk, and he stood in the station puzzling how he was to get back, when a small carriage with two horses drove up and stopped. It was from the inn at Applum, and, on inquiry, Sven learned that it had been ordered by the Priest, who had just married a clergyman's daughter from a distance, far away in Norrland.

Sven Elversson had likewise ordered a carriage from the inn, but it was now clear that his message had gone astray; no carriage had been sent for him. The driver suggested that he should ask the Priest to let him ride on the box, but Sven did not wish to push himself forward, and would not hear of it.

They were still discussing the question, when the Priest and his young wife came out from the station.

They made a handsome pair. The Priest, just over thirty, was a man of middle height, powerfully built, and with a splendid head. He wore a full beard, dark and curling; had a broad, handsome forehead, well-cut features, and fresh complexion, with white teeth. Altogether, he seemed all that a young girl could wish for; a man to cherish and protect her, work for her, and give her a good place in the world. The young wife, too, was surprisingly beautiful. Sven Elversson was reminded of the type so favoured by some English painters: handsome women with tall, slender figure and sloping shoulders, slightly bowed head, rich hair prettily shading the face, straight eyebrows and delicate cheeks, and with a look in the brilliant eyes that seemed looking out of a strange world toward heaven.

It struck him as curious that, as he watched the pair, the Priest seemed gradually to lose all that Sven had formerly found attractive in him. The fine, unspeakably delicate lines and colouring of the woman seemed to render the man coarse and mean, almost ugly, by comparison. And Sven hoped that he was not influenced by ill-feeling toward the Priest from the time of that scene in the church, in feeling now that this was but a poor husband for the slight, dainty creature at his side.

Sven Elversson moved quickly away as the two came up, but he heard the driver asking on his own account if he might take Sven with him on the box, whereupon the Priest came forward and invited him to drive with them.

The Priest had, indeed, always treated him with kindness, and now, as Sven Elversson sat on the box and the carriage drove off, he tried to efface the impression of a moment ago. "I was mistaken, as I often am," he said to himself. "I should say that I have not seen for years a pair so completely suited as these two. And well they may be. Here is the husband sitting and thinking how different life will be now in the little vicarage at Applum, with a young mistress to fill the place with life and gaiety--while she on her part is dreaming of all she will do to make the home so comfortable that he will never wish to leave it, and always be longing for it when he is away."

So completely had Sven surrendered himself to this view, that he was astonished when a little later the young wife exclaimed, in a tone of weariness, even impatience:

"Oh, will they never end?"

"What is it she wants to end?" thought Sven to himself. "What can it be that could trouble her this day of all days?"

Sven Elversson looked round on all sides. And suddenly he understood. It must be the stonehills.

It was indeed a strange-looking landscape they were driving through.

Mountain country one could not call it, for there were neither peaks nor mountain ridges; on the other hand, it was not a level plain, for the ground was broken everywhere by hillocks of rock, large and small. In places, they were so close together as hardly to leave a passage between; then they would lie farther apart, with broad open spaces large enough for homestead and field. Right and left, behind and before, the same--truly a stranger might well ask if they would never end. The road wound in and out between them, and never the crest of a hill so high that they could see across them, to what lay beyond. All along the way were stonehills, and ever more behind. Some were sparsely clad with a poor growth of grass, others were bare, and others again showed patches of bush and heather; save for this, they were all alike.

Now and again, an open space between led one to hope that the ground might be clear beyond, but one had scarcely time to frame the thought before a new hillock thrust itself into view.

"It must be different in Norrland, of course," thought Sven. "And these stonehills of ours are dark and forbidding enough, it is true. A pity they should be the first this little lady sees of Bohuslän."

And next moment he heard her telling her husband that she felt as hopelessly lost among these stony hills as in the darkest forest.

In one place a flock of sheep could be seen grazing, then a couple of cows, or again some children picking berries. And the young wife declared that it was well they were there, for had it not been for the sight of children and homely animals, she would hardly have believed they were in a Christian country.

"Sigrun, how can you say such a thing!" exclaimed her husband. "This is Bohuslän, my own country, and I love every stone and every tuft of heather in it. What would you have said if I had spoken so about the pine forests and the moors of Norrland?"

As was but natural, his words took effect. The young wife was silent at first for a while; then she whispered something, with tears in her voice, and Sven understood that she was begging her husband's forgiveness for having spoken so about his country.

"I'm not like that other days, really. I don't know what can be the matter with me to-day," she said.

Every word she uttered was a delight to hear; so solemnly and sincerely she spoke, with the slightest trace of a lisp in her voice. "God forbid she should be otherwise for my part," thought Sven. "Surely 'tis only beautiful that she should be afraid of all ugly things."

Nothing more was said for a time, but then the little lady began again, with a strange quiver in her voice:

"Edward, I know it's wrong of me to trouble you, but I can't help it. I am so afraid. I've been trying to overcome it by myself, but I can't--it won't go away. And then I just remembered that I shan't need to struggle against things all alone now--that I've you to help me with all my weakness."

There was such a depth of entreaty in her tone that Sven Elversson felt embarrassed at sitting there where he could hear. He felt himself unworthy even to over, hear the thoughts and feelings of this delicate lady.

She was trying now to explain to her husband that she was actually afraid. She fancied she had seen these hills somewhere before--had fled for her life among such a confusion of rocky hills, with some behind that sought to kill her. Or that there was someone even now lying in wait there, ready to fall upon them. Something terrible there must be, close at hand. She had but one desire, to get away from the place.

Her voice told that she was in greater fear even than she would admit, and that this was deadly earnest. Sven Elversson himself could not help smiling where he sat, and the Priest was utterly unable to understand her fear of nothing at all; he tried to answer gaily, and pass it over with a jest.

But his endeavours failed of their effect. She declared, with sudden violence, that if Applum were as cold and shut in as here, she could never live there.

"And it's wicked and wrong of me to say so, I know," she said; "but I've been thinking of it all the time, while we've been driving here; if I cannot find something beautiful at the end of it, something to help me, I shall be haunted by the same fear there as well. I shall be dreading every day that something terrible will happen."

Sven Elversson thought of the plain at Applum, with the vicarage behind the church, set in a little hollow to be sheltered from the wind. And he wondered if she would find any comfort in the evenly divided fields, the dark wall of hills all round, the narrow view, the homesteads painted blue and white and red, and the treeless meadowland.

"'Tis none so easy for him just now," thought Sven. "I'd find it hard myself to comfort her in his place. But he knows her, and loves her--it makes all the difference."

The Priest must have been thinking of the same thing. He sat for a while without speaking.

"Let me tell you of a dream I had last winter," he said at last. "It made me very happy at the time, that dream, and perhaps it may help you too.

"I dreamed that I was driving along the road to your home at Stenbroträsk, and it was toward the end of winter, bare earth and leafless trees, and the road a sodden stretch of mire. The bridges were out of repair, and the horse was a wretched beast that could hardly move at all.

"There was a keen, cold wind from the north, and everything was gray and dismal, and the few houses here and there along the way looked poor and miserable; the whole country seemed inhospitable and depressing.

"Then at last, coming up over the hill, I caught sight of the steep river-bank, and the church and the house at Stenbroträsk, and in a moment all was changed. The air seemed warmer, the fields were green, the birches wore a veil of leaf, the road was firm and good--everything was kindly and smiling as if in welcome; even the horse came suddenly to life and trotted on bravely.

"But the strange thing about it all was that I felt the spring and the warmth came from myself. They had not been there before, but now, as if by magic, they came--and all because of the warmth that filled my heart at sight of your home. And there seemed nothing strange about it all in my dream--it was all natural and as it should be."

Here the Priest paused, and his wife, in a changed voice, asked what happened after.

"There was no more," he answered. "For the warmth at my heart was so good to feel that I woke." And, having said this, he was silent again.

But those few words of love, the little glimpse of something beautiful, had filled the young wife's heart with joy, and the listener in front heard her whisper to her husband in a voice almost stifled with emotion:

"You mean that if I had but the same warmth in my heart as you, I should find beauty in this country of yours, and in your home--even in these dreadful hills."

And then gladly and confidently she went on:

"Do not be afraid for me. There is nothing to frighten me now. I feel now as you felt in your dream."

"There," thought Sven to himself. "See how little one can judge things at first sight. Truly she could not have found a better husband than Pastor Rhånge. He has a good heart and a good head. Who else could have answered her so well?"

THE SEA

THE newly married pair had come home on a Tuesday. On Saturday in the same week, Sven Elversson went up to the vicarage with some papers about the school. He walked straight up the front steps and through the hall into the office, and stopped just inside the door.

It was the Pastor's day for business, he knew, and though it was rather late, he had never thought but that he would find the Priest sitting at his writing-table. But he was not there--was not in the room at all. He could not be far away, however, for the big books that were always used on business days lay open on the table, and a pen was in the inkstand.

It was not Sven's way to push himself forward, and he did not care to go through to the kitchen and ask if the Pastor was at home, or look for him in any of the other rooms. There could be no harm, he thought, in staying where he was, to wait a little.

But as he stood, there was a sound of voices in the next room; the door was ajar, and he could hear every word distinctly.

"Sigrun"--it was the Pastor speaking, in an easy tone:--"the post ought to have been here by now. But I can't go down for it myself to-day, in case any one comes."

"Why, then," answered his wife cheerfully, "that's easily managed. Malin will be going down to the store directly, and she can bring back your paper at the same time."

Evidently the Pastor had only gone out for a moment to ask about the post, thought Sven. He would be back now, since that was settled.

But the Pastor spoke again.

"Well," he said, "don't you think now you might go yourself? Wouldn't you like a little walk? It's lovely out just now, and the road has dried after the rain of yesterday. It would do you good to get out in the air a little."

He spoke gently and kindly, as if thinking only for her good. And the young wife answered as kindly again.

"I'd go and gladly," she said, "but look at these curtains strewn all about the room. I can't go till I've got them up."

There was no more to be said after that, thought Sven. But he noticed at the same time how the Priest's voice, manly and strong in itself, seemed to lose its pleasant tone, and become rough and coarse, when heard beside his wife's soft, gentle speech.

And it seemed that the matter was not ended yet, after all, as he had hoped. The Priest began again.

"Oh, of course, one couldn't expect a great lady like yourself to go and fetch a paper for her husband," he said. This must be meant in jest, surely. But it sounded at the same as if he were annoyed at her refusing to do as he wished.

"Oh, Edward, you know it's not that."

"Or perhaps Applum's too dull and ugly a place for you to care to go out at all. Her ladyship doesn't care to take the air unless there are fine houses and big estates all round. Perhaps I had better order the carriage, so that----"

"Edward!" she cried.

"Oh, I know there's nothing here to compare with your own place," he went on, with a little ill-tempered laugh. "But I didn't think you were too proud to set foot to the ground in Applum, for all that."

"Edward, it isn't that at all. I can't go just now."

"You _can't_ go?" asked her husband, with an air of profound astonishment.

All this had passed before Sven had time to think. "I ought not to hear," he said to himself. And to make his presence known, he rattled the handle of the door, opened the door itself and closed it again, stamped his feet and coughed. But no one seemed to notice, and the two in the next room went on again.

"No, I can't," repeated the young wife. "There is something in this place that stifles me; I can't breathe. It isn't just longing for home, but something more. I am well and happy enough as long as I keep to the house, but as soon as I go out it comes over me again."

She spoke passionately, flinging out her words in broken snatches.

"But, Sigrun," said the Priest, "what is the matter with you? I meant no harm."

"I'm not so proud, indeed I'm not," she cried. "Ask any of those at home, and they'll tell you it was never my way to be so. And it's not because the place is not pretty to look at that I can't bear to go out. No, it is something else--if only I knew what it was!"

"Look here, Sigrun," said her husband, "you must tell me what all this means. We must talk this over seriously, that's clear."

Sven Elversson was at a loss to know what to do. He had already heard too much, perhaps; it would make matters worse to let them know he had been there. He walked to the door, but turned back again. He was always in doubt now as to how to act. It would be hard to find a man so undecided and lacking in self-confidence.

"I didn't want to tell you about it," said the young wife, speaking breathlessly and impatiently as before, "for I know it's nothing really. Only something that comes over me as soon as I go outside the house. Not anything I can see or hear, but something that makes me feel miserable and sorry for myself. It is cruel to think that I must go about here always, and never get away; I feel as if I had been condemned for some crime. It is just that--to feel myself condemned to stay for ever in one place, the same little, narrow, monotonous, cheerless place."

"Now I know," thought Sven to himself, "she is only saying this so that he shall say something beautiful in return, as he did before. And the Priest's a man with the heart and head to set her right again--'twill be easy enough for him."

"Oh, if only one could look out and see far away--if only I were not buried here, in a hole, and had not that wall of hills all round. But it must be a punishment for something I have done, or I should not have come here. Oh, can't you say something to help me?"

Now it must come, thought Sven. Now surely he would say some beautiful thing. And it would be fine to see how he would help her again this time.

Truth to tell, Sven Elversson was perhaps not sorry to be standing where he could hear all this. The young wife's voice was very sweet. And he was sure the Priest would say something wonderful now; something inspiring and good to hear.

"I have tried again and again," she went on, "to go out. But I can't. You can't think what it is like. I feel as if I were choking; I feel it here in my throat. And I've cried----"

"But there is nothing," said the Pastor. "Surely, Sigrun, you must know that. There is nothing in the air here that we cannot see. It is all imagination."

"There _is_! There is something here--I can feel it. Something that hates me, and is trying to take away my happiness. Do you know what I have been doing lately? I go and look at that poor little picture of Stenbroträsk, that one of my cousins did for me--I laughed at it then. But now, when I have looked at it a little, the river and the house and the big rowan trees by the gate, it seems to give me courage enough to go on living."

"I am afraid, my dear, you are giving way to a foolish fancy," said her husband. And the listener marked how he slipped into the admonitory tone of the preacher. "You must really try to overcome it before it has gone too far. And I think, really, I must ask you now to go and do as I said--go down to the post at once."

"But I can't!" she cried. "I can't--I can't!"

Sven Elversson knew, of course, that the Pastor was honestly acting for the best. But--he had thought he would have found some other way. Still, perhaps after all this was best. He himself would hardly have known what to do.

"Listen to me, Sigrun," said the Priest. "You must surely understand that it is childish to give way to such ideas. The only thing to do is to overcome it. You are well and strong; you will not tell me that you cannot walk that little way. Anyhow, I must ask it of you, for the sake of our happiness--if you wish it to last for life, and not for a few weeks' honeymoon only."

"I will go another time," she said, humbly, despairingly. "But--won't you let me off for to-day? I will try in a day or two; I will try to-morrow."

Sven Elversson stood listening yet a moment, anxious to hear if the request would be granted. But when the Pastor repeated that he must have his paper now, at once, Sven saw in a flash what he should have done before, but in his confusion had not thought of. Very quietly he opened the door and slipped out. He walked slowly until out of sight of the vicarage, and then set off at a run down to the post.

And so, when the young wife came walking slowly, so slowly, down the road, with tears on her eyelashes after what had passed, and trembling, half-unconscious, as if she had risen from a sick-bed, she had not to go many steps before a young man stepped up to meet her.

He greeted her politely, and said something about having driven with them from the station a few days back.

She made no answer, only stared at him, without understanding at first what he meant. He endeavoured to explain that he had been to the store; she fancied afterward he must have been going to say something about the storekeeper having asked him to take the paper up with him to the vicarage. He spoke softly, and with so much hesitation that she would have found it hard to understand him even had she been herself at the time.

He handed her a newspaper, which she took, but still she walked on, as if unable to realize that here was the thing she had been sent to fetch; that she could go back home now as soon as she pleased.

Then the young man came up to her again, saying something about going another way, if she wished to go for a walk. He begged her humbly to excuse him for the liberty, but seeing she was a stranger to the place, and a fine evening, if she would not rather go down and look at the sea.

In the midst of all her fear and trouble of mind, with the same stifling feeling at her throat, she caught a word of the sea, and stopped, and looked at him.

"The sea? Is there any sea near here?" she asked.

"Indeed there is," he answered. And if she were not above letting him show her the way, it would not take long to get there.

He turned off along a little path running straight toward the west, and she followed. She noted that he was dressed as a workman of the better class, and had a kindly, honest face, though his manner was strangely humble. She felt no hesitation about going with him now.

It was a beautiful evening, with a curious reddish light that seemed to float down from the sky. It was as if the air about her took colour, and became visible. She felt as if it were filled with tiny, delicate rose-leaves, that came falling softly down, like snowflakes, making the plain all round blush faintly, like a bride.

And when they came out toward the western hills, she saw that they did not make one continuous barrier, as she had thought. The wall consisted of huge masses of rock, but with passes leading through in many places.

The young workman led her out between the rocks, and on the farther side there was white sand on the ground, with here and there a shell. Then, after turning a corner of the cliffs, she stopped and drew a deep breath.

Before her was a broad, open expanse. All the rich red sea of air, and all the wide sea of water spreading out and away, with nothing to shut it in. Open, free, as far as the sun itself, that was sinking toward the western verge.

There was no land to be seen out there save a narrow strip of sand with a long stone mole, and, farther out, a few black reefs rising from the pearly water.

And at sight of all this, she felt in a moment that she was saved. For where could she choose to be rather than here, in a place with so much beauty, so near at hand--so much beauty that she could see every day.

How could it be that no one had ever told her of this? She sat down on a stone and rested there a long while, drinking in the light with her eyes. Her eyes wandered over the wide expanse, looking as far as they pleased, like birds released from a close cage.

And she thanked God for her home, and for the sea, so great and strong and clean, so near her.

She must have sat there long without speaking. When she looked up, the young workman had gone.

Truth to tell, she was pleased at this. She could always thank him, another time. It was pleasanter now to be alone.

She felt stronger now, and more hopeful--better able to fight against the stifling sense of something threatening that hung over the plain.

Suddenly she remembered her husband--he might be anxious about her. And she rose to go home, to tell him that she was better now, and happier. And to thank him for his sternness in sending her out to face her trouble boldly.

SAILING

IT WAS a Sunday morning in late October. A heavy wind came sweeping up from the south, from lands where the air was yet warm, where roses still budded and bloomed, where the vines were newly stripped, and the juice of the grape foamed in the presses.

The heavy south wind spoke with a strange, disquieting sound. Listening to it, one felt confused, as if hearing a stranger speak in some foreign tongue. Who could say what it was trying to tell--whether some great secret, or merely a whisper of all the yellowing trees, the fallen wings of butterflies, the empty nests, it had passed on its way?

That Sunday, Sven Elversson had come over in the boat to land his father at the little harbour outside the barrier rocks of Applum; the old man had gone in to service at the church. But Sven did not go with him; as soon as his father had gone, he sought out a cleft in the rocks a little to the right. It was a place he knew well; he had lain there often on the green heather as a child.

This was the happiest time Sven Elversson had known since his return. The patient, sorrowful smile had begun to fade from his lips, and the bitter trouble that had filled his soul no longer tortured him as before. And as he lay there on a ledge of rock, listening to the wind, wondering what it was trying to tell him, and staring out over the sea, he called to mind a vision he had seen one day, when he had been lying just as now on a rocky slope by the shore, with a broad expanse of sea spread out before him. The bright glitter of the sunlight on the water had tired his eyes, and he had lain quite still for a long time. Then, suddenly opening his eyes and glancing down at the great water, he had seen a mermaid.

It was only the briefest glimpse; she was gone the moment his eyes fell on her, changed to a fleck of white mist that floated away over the water.

But he had seen her--and the thought filled him with a great joy; he felt himself favoured, honoured beyond others, and supremely happy at having been granted a sight of one of those lovely spirits of nature that fill the air and sea, yet hide themselves so jealously from the sight of men.

He was certain that a whole flock of mermaids had been playing there on the shore, but had vanished the moment he sought to open his eyes. All but that one, who had not been able to escape in time.

He had never forgotten it, and since then he had never sat alone by a quiet sea but he must close his eyes and lie very still for a time, that the mermaids might think he slept, and venture out from the deep. But never since that once had he gained a glimpse of any.

To-day he tried again, though with little hope. And when he felt he had been quiet long enough, and opened his eyes, he started almost in dismay. True, there was no mermaid, no figure half maiden, half a fish, to be seen amid the waves. But there, on a tall rock just at the water's edge, sat a woman. A young, slender creature, clad in white, and seated with easy poise on top of the rock--she seemed as if she might as well have come there from the sea as from the land.

But it was soon plain to see that the woman sitting there was no joyous fairy being. She dried her eyes again and again with a handkerchief--after all, no more than a poor human creature, that could suffer and shed tears.

Sven Elversson sat watching her, wondering what it could be that troubled her. Was it more ugly stonehills again, more prisoning barriers of rock, that made her fear so that she could not go to church, but must sit alone and weep beside the sea?

He saw how her slight figure shook with sobs; her whole attitude told him that it was no light burden that weighed her down. And he understood that she had come to seek for comfort from the sea, having no other to whom she could turn. And this time the sea had not helped her.

A moment later the woman turned at a slight sound behind her. A man was clambering down the slope; she recognized him, surely, as the young workman who had shown her the sea here some weeks ago. Hastily she dried her eyes and went toward him; she had not thanked him yet.

"I saw you sitting there," said he, "and I thought, if I might be so bold ... I've my boat close by here, a good boat, though not much to look at. And if you'd honour me so far. I'd be very glad to take you for a sail."