When Sigrun came out next morning into the garden, she saw that the book of poems had been left on the table, and went to fetch it in.
But, on taking it up, she found something between the leaves. And, looking to see, she found a small purse of yellow leather.
It was thrust in just at the page where stood the verses of the prisoner returned from the wars, and it contained her two plain rings, one other ring, also her husband's gift, and a few small trinkets.
She wondered at this, trying to think what it could mean. And then at last she understood. And, trembling with emotion, she began to weep.
So it was Sven Elversson found her.
At first she could make no answer to his anxious questioning. Then at last she sobbed out:
"Edward was here last night, and heard all we said. He saw that I loved you, and he left this for me."
"Love me!" cried Sven Elversson. "You love me?"
"Yes," said Sigrun. "And Edward saw it, but he is not angry with me. My love, he will not come to fetch me now. He tells me to stay here and be yours now."
Later in the day, Lotta Hedman came over to Hånger with a message from the Pastor, asking Sigrun how she wished matters now to be arranged.
And she had much to tell, and among other things this: that, on the previous night, she had seen the old homestead of Hånger for the first time rise up in all its ancient grandeur. She had seen the old woman sitting at the window, and the gatepost, and all the rest.
Then, suddenly, she saw the old woman lift her hands to Heaven, and her face shone with joy.
And a voice was heard declaring:
"The trollfolk of Hånger are loosed from the curse."
And at the same moment, the old woman who had watched so long sank into dust and vanished, and the gatepost fell, and house after house collapsed, and Lotta Hedman knew that deliverance had come at last, and that she would never see that vision again.
UNG-JOEL
EVERYONE knows how strange thoughts can be. It is as if they were sown about the earth by an unseen hand. And one can go about fancying one has found something rare and fine, and be glad and proud of it, until one day it appears that the same had grown up in hundreds of other minds as well.
So it was with Pastor Rhånge's thought of the sacredness of life. He was by no means the only one who had found it....
It was in the month of June, the time of year when people in Bohuslän, or, rather, in the coast tract of Bohuslän and on the islands near, made ready for the coming of visitors.
There had been a great to-do everywhere in making preparations. Houses and boats were newly painted, rooms swept out, gardens tidied up, bathing-huts warmed, and refuse cleared away. And now the trains began to come in, laden with visitors from all parts of the country. Invalids and the overworked, loads of children and loads of aged folk, those seeking rest and those in search of amusement. It seemed as if all Sweden were on the road to the cool reef-belts and the boisterous sea.
But the visitors for whose sake all this was done were to come from the eastward, from up inland. From the west, from the sea, no visitors were looked for. No preparations had been made for any coming from there; No orders, no instructions, had come regarding visitors from the sea.
And so, when visitors did come from the sea, naturally enough, their reception could not be the same as in the case of those from inland. Also, they brought with them horror and confusion and gloom, but no pleasure at all.
One week of the month of June, 1916, had passed when Sven Elversson was constrained to make a journey to Applum, all for the sake of those same visitors. His brother, Ung-Joel, who had been at sea the last few years, sailing between Holland and the Swedish ports, had come home to Knapefiord, sick and strange in mind after having met with some of those strangers out at sea, while they were yet on their way. And he had told his young wife she must send for his brother to come and see him.
When Sven Elversson came to Ung-Joel he found him walking up and down the little room behind the kitchen, where the young couple had set all their best furniture, and which they never used as a rule. He was pale and weary, but not exactly ill. His eyes were bloodshot, and looked as if ready to close at any moment for lack of sleep, but he gave himself no rest, to sit or lie down.
"How is all with you, Ung-Joel?" asked Sven Elversson.
Ung-Joel made no answer to the question, nor did he seem in any way aware of his brother's presence. He walked up and down as before, beating the air now and again with both arms.
"The seagulls—that is the worst, you know," he said.
"If we could only do something to make him sleep," whispered his wife. "But he is afraid to lie down; he is afraid to close his eyes. Just walks up and down, up and down...."
"The seagulls—that is the worst," said Ung-Joel again, and waved his arms as before.
"Ung-Joel," said Sven Elversson, trying to bring up some old memory to turn his brother's mind from his trouble. "Do you remember when you and the fellows from the Naiad came over to Grimön that day with a snake for me to eat?"
And at that Ung-Joel stopped in his walk.
"Is that you, Sven?" he said. And the tears began to flow from his tired eyes. "It's a good thing you came. So I can ask you to forgive me, before I go mad."
"No need to talk like that," said Sven Elversson.
But now Ung-Joel began to tell how one day, after the great fight in the North Sea, he had come sailing round the Skaw, and had seen the hosts of the dead floating on the surface of the sea.
They did not lie flat on the water, but were held upright by their lifebelts, with heads above water, so their features could be seen.
And Ung-Joel told how the vessel had sailed for hours among the dead—thousands and thousands of dead. The sea was covered with them.
He described many terrible sights he had seen, but what seemed most terrible of all to him was that all those dead men had their eyes torn out by the innumerable seagulls that hovered about their heads.
"And I'll tell you what happened to the second mate," said Joel. "He'd been standing looking at all this ghastliness a while, and then suddenly he shut his eyes and jumped overboard. We never saw him again. He knew he would never be able to live in peace after what he had seen. And I wish now I had done the same."
"Do not think so, Joel," said Sven Elversson.
"I've got those horrors fixed in my eyes now," said Joel—"fixed there so I can see it all if I shut them only for a moment. I daren't lie down; I must be on my feet day and night, to keep my eyes from closing."
"You must think of other things," said Sven Elversson. "You've a wife and children."
"I'll tell you what we did," said Ung-Joel. "We got out a couple of guns we had on board, and started firing at the gulls. It was a sort of relief: something to vent our rage on. And I think it was that that saved us.
"But it was a silly thing to do, all the same. For it was no fault of the gulls. And they did no more than harm the dead—what's that against what was done to the living? And it was that I wanted to say to you, Sven. When I think how men deal so with men, that thousands of young lives are strewn about the sea, I can only cry for shame.
"And, Sven, I know I used to look down on you before and reckon myself better than you. But I want to ask your forgiveness for that. I used to think how you and your comrades up there had done a wrong to the dead, and I myself—I've never done a single thing to help the living."
"That you have, Joel," said his brother.
"No," said Joel, weeping, and threw himself on his knees beside an upholstered armchair, covered with pieces of embroidery, where his brother was sitting. "I've never helped a single soul, not even father or mother, or any one. And that's why the world's so cruel as it is."
"It could be better, Joel," said Sven, stroking his brother's hair. "And you can help to make it so."
"It's too late now," said Ung-Joel. "Now that I've got that sight in my eyes. I'm going mad now."
Sven Elversson laid one hand gently over his brother's eyes.
"Try now, Joel," he said. "You cannot see anything cruel now, with my hand over your eyes."
"That's true," said Ung-Joel. "There's blessing in your hand, Sven, from all the good you've done for others."
"Close your eyes now, Joel," said Sven Elversson. "And just think of how we can work together and help each other from now on."
And Ung-Joel closed his eyes, and in a moment he had fallen forward against his brother's knees, asleep.
It was a strange day, indeed, for Sven Elversson, that day in Knapefiord. It seemed as if every living soul in the place had hit on the same thought as Ung-Joel.
When his brother had been put to bed, and was quietly and healthily asleep, Sven Elversson went for a walk through the fishing village. He had gone but a little way down the smooth rocky slope when he met a woman. It was the wife of that Hjelmfeldt who had been one of the crew of the Naiad.
As soon as she saw who it was, she came up and shook hands with him, and begged him to go in and speak to her husband. Hjelmfeldt had been one of a party that fished up a mine at the beginning of the war, with the result that he had now but one arm and two half-legs remaining.
"And I said to myself," said his wife, "that if ever I came across you again, I'd ask your forgiveness for what we'd done to you. I've been thinking of them that sit making those mines and things. And if one of them heard about you, I dare say he'd think he was a fine fellow compared to you."
"That may be," said Sven Elversson.
"But I say no!" cried Hjelmfeldt's wife, with loud-voiced eagerness. "If he thinks it's wrong to harm the dead, then let him think how it's a thousand times worse to make up such devil's tools to cripple the living, and leave a man helpless and miserable all his life. You've never done that. You only tried all you could to help us."
Sven Elversson went into the house to see her husband, and sat with him for a good while, listening to his troubles. Then he went on his way again.
The next he met of those he knew before was Julia Lamprecht. She, too, came up and spoke to him.
"You offered to marry me once," she said. "And I said I would never marry such a one as you. I have thought of that many a time since this war began. And I'd like you now to know I've been sorry for it. For what right had I to judge you for how you've acted by the dead? But those whose doings have left all the quarries in Bohuslän empty, and the workers idle, and their wives and children starving—they've wronged the living, and that's worse."
Sven Elversson went on, and after a little while a young man whom he did not remember having seen before came up to him.
"You won't know me, I dare say," said he. "I was only a boy when you left Grimön. But I was one of those that called after you in the street that time. And I'd like to ask your pardon for that now, for I've come to see how it's worse to wrong the living than to wrong the dead. I've been a pilot in the war, and been torpedoed three times, and each time some lives were lost. And I thought of you, and wondered why we that used to be so hard on you are so patient now. Seems as if it was only right for human beings to turn on one another like savages. And yet it can't be right, somehow...."
On leaving the pilot, Sven Elversson climbed up to the top of a hill behind the village and stood for a long time looking out over the sea.
"If the trouble of my life," he said, "could bring people to remember that life should be inviolable; that a living man should not be robbed of his life or hindered in its use, then, after all, some good would have grown up out of the bitter seed of my misery."
IN THE NETS
SOME days later, when Ung-Joel had slept his fill and was nearly recovered, Sven Elversson came down in the afternoon to Knapefiord harbour, and found the Naiad lying in its usual place. Olaus from Fårön and Corfitzson and the others whom he knew were on board, making ready, like the rest of the fishing fleet, to put to sea. They were going out with the drift nets, far into the Kattegat. And Sven Elversson felt a sudden desire to go with them, and spend a night at sea.
Olaus looked as if he were minded to refuse, but finding no good reason, he agreed. And as soon as a suit of oilskins had been found for Sven Elversson, they put off. The weather was better than they had had most of that summer, and they might hope to make a good haul. But Sven Elversson soon noticed that all on board were in ill-humour. They spoke unkindly to one another and to him. When he asked about the yield of the mackerel fishery early in the summer, they answered with oaths that a fisherman's life was the poorest that could be.
They reached the fishing grounds, and got the huge nets out, without a single pleasant word being spoken; the same gloom was noticeable later, when they had their meal. That night, Sven Elversson sat up on deck; the watches relieved each other in turn, but none took the opportunity of having a chat with him. The men walked up and down, silent, bitter, and sullen, all of them.
Sven Elversson felt depressed and unhappy over all this unfriendliness, but hoped the spirits of those on board would improve when the morning came and it was time to haul in the catch. Something approaching cheerfulness was also apparent when the motor was started, and the two ends of the net were brought on board ready to haul.
Olaus and Corfitzson were hauling, the others stood ready to disengage the fish from the meshes as the net came in. And as the fish appeared, a full catch of splendid mackerel, glistening all colours of the rainbow, their faces brightened.
"You see, they won't have troubled us the night," said Corfitzson.
"Keep quiet, can't you!" snapped out Olaus, with an oath. "Want to tell them we're here? They'll find us soon enough without that. Feel here!"
He hoisted the net a little out of water, and all saw, among the glittering fish, something big and dark. There was dead silence on board, and next moment the body of a man came on deck with the net.
One young fellow, who had taken Hjelmfeldt's place on board, tried to get the corpse free of the net, but the skipper's voice called to him sharply:
"Leave it alone. There's another of them here." And a moment later a new command:
"Let them alone. There's more of them coming."
Just then Corfitzson and Olaus lifted on board a dreadful mass: two bodies twined together.
And when the last of the net was hauled in, there lay a huge mound of dead men, brown meshes, and fish in one confusion. The fish, still living, flapped and slithered about, making the whole horrible mass seem alive.
When the bodies were lifted on board, Sven Elversson was so affected that he wept. He wiped the tears away with the back of his hand, but could not stop them. He stamped his foot, but the tears still came. He was forced to leave his work at the net and walk away far astern.
There he stood until the net was in and the motor started for the homeward run. The silent crew, sullen, unwilling, and gloomy as before, had begun once more the work of clearing fish and mussels from the net, and getting loose the rest.
"All in the net to be thrown over," commanded Olaus.
When Sven Elversson heard the order, he went up to the rest. The tears still flowed from his eyes, but he did not heed them. He took his place with the crew, and set to work, helping with their dreadful task.
They came to one of the dead. Sven Elversson lifted him up, and loosened some of the meshes that had caught in the buttons of his uniform. It was an elderly man with a sailor's beard under his chin. Someone suggested that he was an Englishman. When he had got the body loose, Sven Elversson began hoisting it to the deck.
"All that's in the net to go overboard," said the skipper, bending down toward the corpse.
But Sven Elversson restrained him.
"Will you not let this be laid to rest in holy ground, Olaus?" he said.
Olaus did not answer directly.
"Best to get these horrors away from the ship," he said.
Sven Elversson clenched his teeth in the endeavour to keep back his tears, and said as firmly as he could:
"If you throw this overboard, you will have to throw me, too."
He was astonished to hear himself speaking so, but he could not help it. He felt that he would stand by his word.
The others, too, saw that he meant what he said, and would never let the dead man go while he himself lived.
The skipper swore, and turned away, but made no direct refusal, and the others understood that he agreed.
Sven Elversson tried to lift the body, but it was too heavy for him. Then the young fellow newly joined came to his help, and together they laid the dead man by the bulwarks.
The next body was loosed from the net, and laid beside the first without question. Two men carried it up to where Sven Elversson stood. "This one's a German," they said.
To his surprise, Sven Elversson noted that the men on board had suddenly changed to a different expression, a different humour. They swore no longer, but spoke calmly and quietly. They no longer felt hatred toward these hosts of dead, that came and stole away their livelihood. They were accustomed to show respect and reverence to the dead, and something in their nature was more at ease to know that these drowned men of war were to be given decent burial.
Sven Elversson, too, felt strangely easier in mind. His soul felt more at rest now than ever since the first day of his misfortune.
He seemed to hear voices about him, thanking him for his charity to the bodies that once had been the dwellings of immortal souls.
"Now you are loosed from the burden that was Lid upon you," said the voices. "Thus it was to come about. Your guilt is taken from you. You have risked your life to save the dead, and you have atoned for all."
His heart beat lightly and strongly, and he thought: "Let others condemn me now if they will, it will not matter, for in myself I know that I have fulfilled my penance and conquered."
THE SERMON OF THE SACREDNESS OF LIFE
SVEN ELVERSSON, his mother Thala, his brother Ung-Joel, and Ung-Joel's wife, stood among the crowd in the little burial ground outside the church at Applum.
It was the day when the dead sailors brought into Applum after the great fight in the North Sea were to be laid to rest. A great grave had been dug, to receive no less than seventeen coffins. So great a funeral had never before been seen in the little parish, and it might safely be said that never before had so many people been gathered in the little churchyard.
Not for eight years had Sven Elversson been so near a church as now. He had even hesitated a little about going to the funeral now, but his mother, who had come down to Applum to see to Ung-Joel, had persuaded him to go with them.
"Look you, Sven," said she, "I'd not set my foot in Applum church any more than you, but to-day's a week-day, so there's no question of that. And after all you've done to have those poor dead bodies laid in Christian ground, you'd not be leaving them the last of the way?"
It was as she said. All that last week, ever since the day he had been out with the Naiad, Sven Elversson and his brother Joel had sailed about among the reefs and islands in a light craft, looking for stranded bodies. Some had also been brought in from other parts, but the two brothers themselves had collected no less than eight and ferried in to the stone quay at Applum.
"Besides," said Mor Thala, "you can see yourself that folk look at you differently now to what they did."
This was, perhaps, what weighed most. The war, its horrors, all the misfortunes that had come upon the fisherfolk, had made them look more gently at Sven Elversson and his offence. They were more inclined now to notice his striving to help and restore.
"He must be a good man, anyway," they said. "He tries to help any one that's hard put. And, after all, helping the living's the greatest thing."
When it was then seen that Sven Elversson himself was doing more than all the rest to secure proper burial for the poor sailors, there were some who fancied they understood what made him do so, but most felt that, after all, it was not needed so.
It was otherwise with Sven Elversson himself. Each day he went to this new task of his with a strange delight. Every hour of it gave him more peace, more calm of mind. He felt a lightness of heart, a happiness, that he could not express, but the reflection of it shone in his face.
Not the joy of love, not the noblest deed, no word of praise could have given him the inner security he felt now, since he had taken the body of a dead English seaman on the Naiad under his protection.
He could not understand how it had come about, for it was no great heroic deed he had done. The risk, the chance that Olaus would throw him overboard together with the dead, had not been great. Nevertheless, he felt that the great change had come, and that after this he could once more dare to feel happy. Now for the first time he began to think of a future that might hold days and years of happiness for him.
There was a strength in him now that he had not suspected before. He hardly needed sleep. His heart beat so easily, so untroubled; he felt it a joy to be alive.
"Oh, but I was miserable indeed before," he thought. "Every breath was an effort to me then. I did not know what life was."
That he found himself regarded more kindly by his fellows than before was, of course, an added satisfaction; but he thought at the same time that even if they had continued to hate him, it could not have made him feel unhappy now. He was freed, he had atoned.
The day after the burial he was to go back to Hånger. "I shall go back to Sigrun as a new man," he thought. For her sake more than all else his deliverance was a joy to him. What a glorious fullness of happiness awaited them now!
Standing there in the churchyard, following the service, he thought with emotion of these men who had given their lives for their country, but his joy was not lost for that. He saw that the former Pastor of Applum, Edward Rhånge, had also come to be present at this celebration for the dead. For a moment he felt anxious and uneasy, but it passed off at once, and his heart beat again with the same wonderful lightness as before.
"That man is my friend," he thought. "Who could have given me so great a gift as he has?"
When the burial was over, and the last hymn had been sung, Rhånge stepped forward to the grave to speak.
At sight of him standing thus above the crowd, Sven Elversson felt an indescribable sympathy for this man, whom he had so disliked before. The fine head was indeed the same, but the features were thinner, giving a more spiritual appearance. "A splendid man," thought Sven Elversson. "He bears the mark of self-sacrifice upon his face."
As Pastor Rhånge, in a few introductory words, was greeting his former parishioners, someone pulled Sven Elversson by the sleeve.
He turned, and perceived Lotta Hedman standing beside him. She was pale, with glowing eyes, and her hair so unruly and wild that it seemed as if it would lift the hat from her head.
"No, I did not come with him," whispered Lotta, in answer to Sven's question. "He has been here some days already. I came alone. I was 'called.'"
Just then the speaker by the grave said a few words which claimed Sven Elversson's attention.
"Here, on the verge of this wide grave," he was saying, "I would speak to you, my friends, of the sacredness of death and of life.
"And I venture to say that there is none here among us who has not from youth up realized the sacredness of death. If any sinned against the inviolable holiness of death, he should be visited with the severest punishment.
"There was once a man here in Applum named Sven Elversson. His sin was that he had violated the sacredness of death. And we felt that he was more to be contemned than any amongst us. There may perhaps be some now present who were in the church that day when his sin was declared from the pulpit; some who remember how he looked as he stole away, humiliated and wretched. Some may, perhaps, have been among those who sent him on his way with words of scorn. He was a man who almost seemed to invite such treatment. Seeing how he smiled with the same patience whatever was done to him, how he moved aside and humbled himself in every way, one felt perhaps it was almost a duty to add a little to his shame.
"And so it was that at last we made him leave the place. And I do not think anyone missed him greatly when he went. For there was something about him that was always asking our respect. Whenever anything difficult had to be done, and none of us were very willing to undertake it, that man stepped forward. He was trying to persuade us to give him back his honour as a man. And we could not do it, for we felt he was under the judgment of God.
"And so he went on his way through life, as a man under the judgment of God. Always with the same humility, always fearing to stand in the way of others. And he kept apart from us, choosing rather those who were less hard to please—the vagabonds of the roads, and children, who had less knowledge of right and wrong. We found nothing strange in this; it was natural that the man should wish for some company of his fellows. And when we heard time after time how some poor child from the streets had been placed in a good home through his help, or that vagabonds and tramps had begun to seek honest work, we found nothing very strange in that, thinking only that the man had no doubt his own end in view all the time. He was always trying to win back some honour and respect for himself. And we were growing almost tired of his constant endeavours.
"For what could we do for him after all? He had not sinned against any of us. He had not sinned in such a way that his crime could be atoned for by punishment. He had sinned against a sacred custom, and we had no power to grant him absolution. Moreover, we seemed to feel that God had condemned him as we ourselves had done.
"And so, while he was striving to help his fellow men upward in life, I can imagine Death standing behind his chair, leering scornfully at him, knowing the man was in his power, was his prisoner and could not escape. Who was there in all the world that could deliver him?"
Sven Elversson noticed that Mor Thala was crying. He himself felt, as he listened to the preacher's words, as if he were living over again all his past efforts to regain the goodwill of his fellows, but he did not weep. He stood there with untroubled eyes and easy bearing, and looked the speaker in the face.
"But now, of late," went on the Pastor, "we have seen that Death has gained more power in the world even than before. He rules over us and oppresses us. He reaps his harvest before the time. He takes violence and cruelty to his aid. He lets loose crime and evildoing. There is no misdeed he does not suffer on earth, and we can see no end to his power.
"And now that we are suffering under the harsh tyranny of Death, we begin to ask: Is there, then, nothing on earth strong enough to take up arms against Death?
"And we know that there is but one thing on earth that dares to resist the power of Death—the constant, unflinching enemy of Death—and that is Life.
"And in the midst of this war, when dreadful things are done, such as the shipwreck of tens of thousands at sea as if it were a trifle, the sending of tens of thousands into captivity as if it were nothing to speak of, the slaughter of tens of thousands at the cannon's mouth as if it were a praiseworthy deed, the driving forth of tens of thousands from their homes as if it were but a natural and customary thing—in the midst of all this, I still believe that there is growing up amongst us a greater love of life than we had known before.
"For Life, Life has been only the poor handmaiden at the service of all, asking nothing for itself. Life has been just the daily bread that was eaten, as it were, without a thought. There was nothing solemn about Life, to be painted in pictures and hovering as a ghost in the gloom. Life has not even any form or figure of its own whereby we may know it.
"Now you may think," the speaker broke off, turning more directly to his listeners, "that I am speaking empty words, seeing that all of us well know Life is the thing we love most of all. But, my friends, it is not enough that we love Life. Life, I would say, is like a child ill-cared for. It may be brought up with more love than understanding, to be a shame and a thorn in the flesh, until we hardly know how to bear with it.
"Or, my friends, we may liken Life to a young bride, whom we take into our house and give all our love. But this is not enough. We must surround her also with peace and holiness, and give her her due and show her kindliness; if not, then the young wife will forsake us, and leave us to loneliness and despair, because the ways whereby we would have led her were not the true ways.
"But of this I might go on speaking to you all day and night until another day, without coming to an end. I must not let this lead me from the thing I am charged to tell you now.
"I will only take it, as I have said, that, during these last years, Life has begun to be a thing more sacred and precious to us than before. And for every day of all this misery, we feel this the more.
"And so it is that we are beginning to look with greater kindliness toward those who are the true servants of Life; who seek to keep Life a good and noble thing, and render aid and protection to the living.
"I have heard many here in Applum say that they repent of the unkindliness and scorn they showed toward Sven Elversson. And I believe it is because they have begun to understand the greatness and holiness of Life. They realize that to save the children of the streets and the vagabonds of the road is a noble work. They see that Life is greater than Death.
"And to you, Sven Elversson, faithful servant of Life, I can now say that we, your former neighbours, no longer look on you as one stamped with a shameful mark. And we repent of ever having done so. We repent of the suffering we have caused you."
The speaker waved a hand toward the listening crowd.
"Is it not true that I speak for all here present?"
No voice was raised in protest. Many of the listeners had tears in their eyes.
Sven Elversson stood calmly, with the same inward happiness glowing in his mind. "It is good that this should come," he said to himself. "But it is not the greatest thing, after all. The greatest is that I have been freed from guilt in myself, in my heart."
"I am glad that you suffer me to say this in your name," the Pastor went on. "I am glad that you have declared Sven Elversson innocent in your hearts, before his innocence is established by other means."
And then the Pastor went on to tell how several of the bodies of the seamen brought to land had on them letters and papers still legible. These had, of course, been taken charge of, to be returned where possible to the relatives of the dead. But in one case, that of the English sailor first brought on board the Naiad, a letter had been found consisting only of some few lines, without address, and unfinished, yet of such remarkable content that he, the vicar of Algeröd, had been called in to give his opinion on it. This letter he would now read, translating it into Swedish, to those present.
And this was the letter.
"They say we are going into action to-morrow. And this is to ask you, Mary dear, to go to Springfields at Handley Park and tell them something about their foster-son. He took no part in the wicked thing we others did: He was delirious before. Then we thought he was dead, and nobody troubled about him. Then when we found he was alive, we made him believe he had been in it, so he could not give evidence against us after. I must write this now; I shall have no peace until...."
"Now, since we know," said the Pastor, very quietly and earnestly, "that Springfield is the name of the people who adopted Sven Elversson as a child—and also that he himself never had any clear recollection of what happened, but only trusted to the word of his companions, we must say that his innocence is clearly proved by this message from the dead."
The speaker's voice trembled a moment, but rose again to its full power. He turned now directly to Sven Elversson.
"We did not wish to tell you of this, Sven Elversson," he said, "until now, when we could at the same time make it known to all. But now I, your parish priest in former days, who once laid you under the ban of contempt and abhorrence, I have come to declare your innocence at the door of that church from which I once drove you forth. And I count it the greatest mercy of God that I myself am suffered to say these words. You are known to all now as an innocent man, and the disgrace that clung to your name is gone for ever. You can walk with uplifted head among your fellows."
A wave of emotion swept through the crowd. The listeners turned to ask one another what it was they had heard. Many wept for joy that a man's innocence should have come to light after so many years of suffering.
"You will have no need to hide yourself away and humble yourself any more," said the Pastor. "No need to receive ill words with a patient smile. No need to fear that even those who love you must shudder at what you have done. You will be greeted as one of the best among us, and those who are near to you likewise."
"He is thinking of Sigrun," said Sven Elversson to himself. "Thinking of her joy in this. And it is right. It will make her very happy."
When the Pastor had spoken these last words, he turned from the side where Sven Elversson stood, and addressed the crowd on the other hand.
"All that this man has suffered has been suffered for no crime," he said. Sven Elversson felt his heart beat faster, with increasing violence. "My poor heart is better used to bearing sorrow than joy," he thought.
"But since this is so," the Pastor went on, "you will all ask now, I know, 'Why, then, has God dealt so hardly with him, and why were we so misled?' I have asked myself the same. And I believe I have found the answer.
"As for the man himself, I will say no more than this, that I believe it is through his very misfortunes that God has given him such joy that he would not be without it now."
At these words Sven Elversson thought once more of Sigrun and all the joy that waited him. He felt his heart leap in his breast with delight, but at the same moment, something seemed to break. He could no longer stand upright, but sank to his knees.
"And I believe, too, that Sven Elversson has been sent us as a sign. For God speaks to us in these days not by words, but by the actions of men, and in the deeds of every human being we should read a thought of God."
The speaker drew a deep breath and looked out over the crowd. He saw that all were looking anxiously, expectantly, to him for some word of hope and deliverance from the great distress that weighed them down.
"And when I remember how this man has come to us in this time, I think it is that God had tried through him to show us how we can find a way out of our misery, if not at once, still within a span of time that human thought can embrace."
Sven Elversson slipped to the ground. He had made no cry or moan. His mother, standing near, thought he had sat down to avoid the curious glances of those round him. And he might well need to rest after the excitement of the day.
"For I have learned," said the Pastor, "that this man made to himself a weapon and an instrument of that which troubled him most of all. He had often noticed, in trying to help some creature aside from evil ways, that good words were of little avail, and little could be done by noble example or the prospect of winning praise and living an orderly and respected life. The first thing, he found, was to give the vicious man a hatred and horror of vice, to make him loathe it so that the loathing sank into his soul and body and made it unendurable.
"And now that I have said this, I ask you all here gathered about the grave of these dead seamen to follow me in thought out to sea, beyond the reef belt, yet not so very far, for those whom I wish you to meet are very near us now.
"I went out myself yesterday to see them; those who have made the voyage from Horns Reef up to our very shores, held up by their lifebelts that would not let them sink, those thousands flung into the sea like refuse that none would touch.
"And I ask you now, all of you, to follow me in thought at least, and try to see that sight. You shall see the black holes in place of eyes in the gray faces of the dead. You shall see the sunken cheeks, the hands held up in some strange way, beckoning and waving with the movement of the water; you shall see those that float about lying with swollen bellies; those that lie feet uppermost, and turn over now and again to thrust up their heads, like acrobats turning somersaults. You shall see those who were thrown into the water torn apart and shot to pieces already.
"There are heads that turn from side to side, as if they had something to tell you. And a shrieking, greedy flock of birds about them, and fishes leaping joyfully in the water. All this you shall see, and fix the vision in your minds so that it never can fade.
"But now you ask me: 'Why should we see all this?
"'We are quiet and decent folk, living peaceably among ourselves, and we have no share in the guilt: that caused this war; we can do nothing to hinder what is done by either side.'
"But I say to you, that you should see these messengers of dread—should see them and never forget it. For surely it was not without some purpose that they have been cast up on our shores. All the thoughts of sorrow and pity which that sight could wake in you, those thoughts you should not thrust aside; no, nor the bodily horror and disgust of things left to perish.
"Let the horror and hatred of it fix itself in every fibre of your bodies, and give birth to an abhorrence of war that nothing ever can overcome.
"For remember, that though we here are not responsible for the war, yet we have read of it every day in the papers. We may perhaps have found it interesting that such great events should happen in our time. We have stood aghast, perhaps, in admiration of the great deeds. We have had our sympathies with one side or the other, and rejoiced at their success.
"But now these dead are come to us, that we may see how abominable a thing is war.
"And some of you have profited by the war, and some have believed that it would lead to great and beneficial changes, and some think that nations are strengthened and exalted by war. And none can hold their own or their children's thoughts away from the war.
"But now these dead are come, to show us what we could not see and realize so inwardly before; that war is an abominable thing, a ghastly thing.
"These bodies floating in our waters, they are no ghostly vision, no story of imagination, but reality and truth. And the same may come again after a time, in reality and truth as now.
"And therefore I ask you in thought at least to follow me out to sea, and learn to know these dreadful things, and fix them in your minds and never forget.
"And you shall bring the knowledge of these things to others, so that they, too, may feel unconquerable abhorrence at the very mention of war; so that the word 'war' shall never more be uttered, but become a sound so intolerable to human ears that none dare speak it.
"There are others, perhaps, who have seen even more dreadful things than this. And they, too, shall speak and write of war, until there is woven about it a ghostly fear and shuddering, a dread that nothing can overcome.
"For how can we know what else may come?
"In a few years the memory of this war's sorrow and agony and destruction may be forgotten, and a new generation may once more set out to war with the joy of battle in their hearts. It lies with us now to fix in the minds of all humanity so great a horror of war that no talk of glory and brave deeds can ever take its place.
"For though great words have been spoken against war, and great examples have been set by men of peace, and the wisest calculations proved its madness, still the war is yet alive.
"But out of the very horror and gruesomeness of war itself we can make ourselves weapons and armour and cure, and leave these as a legacy to our children, that they may overcome the greatest enemy of all mankind.
"And now at last I would say some words of the holiness of Life in the time when war shall no longer exist on earth...."
But the words were never spoken. Someone pulled the speaker by the sleeve.
"Sven Elversson is ill. He is dying. It has been too much for him."
The Pastor stepped down from his place and made his way through the crowd to where Sven Elversson had stood. He lay now on the grass, with his head on his mother's knee, not dead, but very ill. His breast trembled with the violent beating of his heart.
When the sick man saw the Pastor approaching, he greeted him with an indescribable smile, full of love and free from fear, as he might have greeted the one dearest to him of all. He tried to reach out his hand toward him, and murmured something either in thanks or asking pardon.
The Pastor knelt beside him; he, too, was filled with a great tenderness now, and anxiety at the thought of losing such a friend as Sven Elversson had now become.
"Sven Elversson, brother," he said. "Live! You must live now for her sake."
They carried the sick man in to the vicarage. A doctor who was present hastened to him. He examined the patient, and declared that he might live a little while—a day, a week, perhaps a year, but that was all.
Meanwhile, the crowd stood round the grave, waiting. They knew that Pastor Rhånge had had more to say; that he wished to tell them something that would give them peace and comfort at parting. They could not do without it now.
A messenger was sent in to the vicarage, and returned with the answer that the Pastor could not leave Sven Elversson now. He was sitting with his arm round the sick man, and nothing else could give him strength to live, or hinder the spark of life from dying out.
THE FIFTH COMMANDMENT
WHILE the crowd still waited for the conclusion of the sermon, a voice was heard, not from the graveside, but from somewhere farther out. A woman's voice, thin and shrill, yet strangely audible and distinct.
They gathered round the speaker, and saw a young woman on her knees, with arms outstretched, head thrown back, and eyes closed. She seemed unconscious of herself, and spoke as in a trance.
"I see the dead," she said—"I see those whom we have buried here. I see them move toward the land of Death, and enter in. And now, after they have gone a little way, I see them coming toward a building, like a schoolhouse, and asking admittance there.
"'We are souls that have passed through the school of earth,' they say to the keeper at the gate, 'and we have come hither to show what we have learned of knowledge there.'
"But the keeper of the gate shakes his head. He tells them that they have ended their schooling too quickly. But all the same he opens the gate and lets them in.
"And I see them go into a great hall. I can see their fear. They are afraid and trembling, like all who are to be questioned so.
"Then a man comes forward to meet them. He wears a long robe, and his hair lies in smooth locks about his head.
"'Ye souls that have passed through the school of earth,' says the man to them, 'can you say my Ten Commandments as they are said on earth to-day?'
"I see the souls of the dead rejoicing that no harder question is asked than this. And all together answer:
"'Thou shalt not worship false gods.
"'Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain.
"'Thou shalt keep holy the Sabbath day.
"'Thou shalt honour thy father and thy mother.'
"I hear them say this, but haltingly, and with great difficulty. And they are wondering in their minds why it should be so hard to say the words. They do not know themselves what makes them stammer and speak so faintly.
"'You have learned this in some manner, albeit with faults and errors,' says the teacher. 'Now say the rest!'
"And then the souls of the dead speak out clearly and without difficulty:
"'Thou shalt kill!
"'Thou shalt commit adultery.
"'Thou shalt steal.
"'Thou shalt bear false witness.
"'Thou shalt covet they neighbour's house.
"'Thou shalt lay waste they neighbour's field, and his wife and his servant, his goods and all that is his.'
"And when all this is said, I can see that the dead are glad to have passed the test so well.
"But the teacher asks them:
"'Who has taught you so to misread my law, that I had set to be a guard about the sacredness of human life?'
"And they answer him:
"'We are soldiers. We are the subjects and servants of Death.'
"Then the teacher cries to them:
"'Wake up, ye dead, and see who is this that ye honour, and who is your master!'
"And I see them waken up out of the error of earthly life as from a long dream. And they see then with dread that they are immortal souls, whose place is in heaven, and they begin to sorrow for all that they have done on earth, and to fear for the punishment to come.
"But then the teacher speaks to them again:
"'I am he that is Lord of Death and of Life.
"'And I sent Death upon earth to be the servant of Life.
"'I let the withered leaves fall to the ground, that new fresh leaves may grow again next year.
"'I let the stars in the firmament burn out and die that new stars may arise in their stead.
"'I let the bodies of those who have lived their life be laid in the grave, that new life may bloom upon earth.
"'But since Death has made himself master instead of servant, I will pursue him.
"'For it is not my will that the harvest should be reaped before its time, nor the young fowl bird be taken by the fowler before it has built its nest and brought forth its young.
"'And I will set a boundary and a landmark between the time that is now and the time that is to come; in a few years I will mark it. And this time shall be called the time of darkness.
"'But ye souls, go back again to earth, and teach mankind to keep my Fifth Commandment, which is the Commandment to love thy neighbour, and is the key to all the rest.
"'Tell them that my Millennium hangs in the east like a dawn. But how shall it rise in the sky and give light to the world, as long as ye let Death take the Great Beast in his service?
"'For the Great Beast is War.'"...
Lotta Hedman came to herself. She looked round and saw a close circle of people. Many faces shone with a great content.
"Where have I been?" she said. "What have I said? Has God at last spoken through my mouth?"
Tears of joy and thankfulness flowed from her eyes.
CONCLUSION
NEARLY a year had passed when, one day, a woman in mourning came driving to the vicarage at Algeröd.
Her coming occasioned no great surprise, for though it had never become generally known that she still lived, there were yet a few of those visiting Hånger who had seen and recognized her, and the rumour had spread.
She had never been separated from her husband by any legal act. Sven Elversson's illness had forced him to live quietly, without any excitement, and the others had done all they could to spare him.
Now that she had come, she went very quietly up to one of the small rooms and made herself at home there.
She did not force herself into the place of the old lady who had been mistress in her absence, but her nature was such that no one could resist her, and by the power of affection she began to rule over her and the servants and brought back peace and content to the home.
Her husband let her come and go as she pleased, and live her own life, as he did his.
But after a few months had passed, she came into his room one day with a letter in her hand.
And, looking round, she saw that the room was full of pictures of herself, and all the things she had worked and embroidered during her marriage were collected there.
Her books were on the bookshelf and her prayer-book lay on the table beside the bed. She seemed to feel herself in an atmosphere warm with love.
"You did not know, perhaps, that Sven Elversson has left a considerable sum of money," said Sigrun to her husband. "When his adopted father in England heard the news of his innocence, he kept his promise and made him his heir. He died at the beginning of the year, and now the legacy is due. It all goes to Sven Elversson's old parents."
"That man left a great happiness behind him," said the Pastor.
"And now they write to me, Joel and Thala, to ask if we will accept Hånger as a gift from them. It was their idea that we should carry on Sven Elversson's charitable work. The means would be at our disposal...."
She noticed that her husband's face darkened.
"It would be a much greater field of work for you," she added.
Pastor Rhånge rose to his feet and walked up and down.
"If you wish to move to Hånger," he said, "I will not try to keep you here."
She answered quickly: "No, I will never leave your house again."
"But, Sigrun," he said, "you understand what I mean. I am glad to have you living in my house—but that is not enough for me."
"You are my first love, Edward," she said quickly.
She broke off, took his hand, and led him to the window.
"Look out on the lawn," she said. "There was a corner over there that was covered with pansies when we first came. They were at home there, and grew up every year by themselves. Once I had a proper flowerbed made there, and planted other flowers, and they grew and throve too. But now the bed with the strange flowers is gone, and look—the pansies are beginning to grow up again in their old place."
THE END