Complete works of hall c.., p.421
Complete Works of Hall Caine, page 421
“So this is to be your last night in the old home, Anna! What a pity! Well,” tapping his snuff-box, “naked came I out of my mother’s womb, and naked shall I return thither! Blessed be the name of the Lord!”
Magnus moved his chair impatiently and made contemptuous noises in his throat.
“I’ve known the old house through all its days of joy and sorrow for five-and-forty years, Anna. Ever since your poor father that’s dead — I buried him myself, God rest his soul!—”
“God rest his soul!” said Anna.
“Ever since the day he gave you away as a bride. And a nervous, blushing, tender-hearted little bride you were, too?”
Again Magnus shuffled in his chair and made noises in his throat.
“I remember it so well because it was the same year that your father’s big barn was burnt down, and his cousin Jorgen was found dead in the Chasm. What a sensation that made! What inquiries! What examining of witnesses! Your predecessor had something on his hands in those days, Sheriff.”
The Sheriff muttered some commonplace, and Magnus kicked at the smouldering wood in the stove.
“Suspicion actually fell upon your father, you remember, and because he had been drinking and was such an ungovernable man when he was drunk—”
“Oh, for the Lord’s sake let’s have done with this,” cried Magnus.
“Magnus Stephensson,” protested the Pastor, “if we are in trouble let us behave like God’s rational creatures—”
“Rational hell!” growled Magnus, whereupon the Sheriff, to avoid further friction, closed his book with a bang, saying he had finished and was ready to go.
Magnus sat quiet while the Sheriff — a sharp-featured man with the eyes of a ferret — put on his snow-shoes and cloak, and then with a tremor in his voice and’ a sombre fire in his eyes he turned and said —
“Is it all over, sir?”
“Yes; it was a long job, but it’s over at last,” said the Sheriff.
“I mean,” said Magnus, “is it certain that the auction must take place?”
“Quite certain. There has never been any doubt of it that I know of.”
“Look here, sir,” said Magnus, heaving up to his feet. “A Sheriff can do a good deal if he cares to use his influence. Give me another chance, and you shall have everything I owe. I’ve had five bad years in succession — no wonder I fell into arrears. Last spring I lost forty lambs in a single night, and next morning two heifers and a calf. The floods came in the autumn too, and half my hay was swept into the lake. But weather like that can’t last for ever. We are sure to have a run of good years next. Give me four years more, sir — and you shall see what I can do.”
“The thing is past praying for,” said the Sheriff.
“Don’t say that, sir. Listen! My people have farmed this place for a hundred and fifty years, and a man doesn’t like to be the one to lose it. My own flesh and blood are in the land too — the strength of my muscles and the sweat of my brow. Give me three years more, sir — just three.”
“Impossible!” said the Sheriff.
“Sheriff, come this way,” said Magnus, drawing the man aside by the arm and speaking in a low voice, so that the women might not hear. “I don’t care a straw about myself — I’ll get along somehow, and if I don’t it doesn’t matter — but there’s the child. She ought to inherit the farm, and she’s an orphan, but she’ll get nothing. Give me a chance for the child’s sake, Sheriff. Don’t be hard on me. Sell up half my stock to pay part of the interest and let me have two years more — only two.”
“You know quite well that the mortgage is on the loose property as well as the land,” said the Sheriff. “How can I sap away the security? As for the girl, she’s young and strong; let her go into service.”
Magnus bit his lip in an effort to control himself, and then he said, “You are quite right, sir; the girl and I can take care of ourselves, but there’s the old mother. She was born in this house and she expected to die here. I shouldn’t so much mind if she were gone, and to tell you the truth she’s not well now, sir. Give me one year more, Sheriff — one single year.”
“It’s no use wasting words,” said the Sheriff. “Matters have gone too far. The only thing I can do now is—”
“What, sir?”
“If you can pay me the whole of the interest before nine o’clock to-morrow morning I can stop the sale on my own responsibility.”
“Eight thousand crowns!” said Magnus, raising his voice to a cry of derision; “you ask me to find you eight thousand crowns before nine o’clock to-morrow morning? You might as well ask me to find you the moon!”
“Then let us say no more on the subject. The Bank has been very patient, very indulgent—”
“The Bank!” cried Magnus, in the wild defiance of his despair. “Has the Bank got a mother? Has the Bank got a child? No! The Bank is a great, grinding monster without bowels of compassion for anybody. God damn the Bank and all its fools and flunkeys!”
“Magnus Stephensson,” said the Pastor, raising his little fat hand, “I will ask you to remember that a clergyman is in your company, and if you take God’s name in vain—”
“Take God’s name in vain! You do that often enough — you do it every Sunday.”
“I’ll not pretend to misunderstand you, Magnus Stephensson, for I know you are now deeply tainted with scepticism, and since you ceased to come to church—”
“Church! You pray to God in your churches, and what does He do for you? What does He do for any one? What has He done for me?”
“If your life had been straight and pure God would have watched over you.”
“And hasn’t it? Haven’t I tried to do what was right? And yet God is seeing me sold up and turned out, and my dear ones left to die in a ditch.”
“God chastises His own, and if we only have faith in Him—”
“Faith in Him? Where is He? Is He in the Northlands? I have never heard of it. Is He in the Southlands? I’ve never seen Him here, though I’ve seen the devil often enough. He’s in the clouds if He’s anywhere, and that’s no use to me.”
“Magnus Stephensson—”
“If God is on the earth let Him do something. Here’s His chance. You call the poor His people, don’t you? Well, I’ve fed and sheltered His people for fifteen years, and now I want feeding and sheltering myself. I want eight thousand crowns before nine o’clock to-morrow morning, and if God can do anything in the world let Him find me the money and save my mother and my child from starvation. But He can’t do it! He can do nothing!”
“Magnus Stephensson,” said the little clergyman, raising his little fat hand again, “when you come to stand before the great white throne God will have something to forgive you.”
“Pastor Peter, when I come to stand before the great white throne I shall have something to forgive God, it seems to me.”
“Blasphemy! Blasphemy!” cried the Pastor, and as he followed the Sheriff out of the house Magnus sent a ringing laugh of contempt after him into the darkness of the night. At the same moment two sheep-dogs that had been lying at the door with their snouts on their paws, as if anxious to join the uproar, began to growl and bark, whereupon Magnus (who had always been a lover of animals) kicked them savagely and then reeled back to his seat by the stove.
The strangers being gone and the little family alone, Elin, who had been standing by the dresser, went over to Magnus and slid into her seat on his knee and said —
“You must not think about me, Uncle Magnus. Wherever you have to go I will go too, and what is good enough for you is good enough for Elin. And then, who knows what may happen before the Sheriff comes back in the morning? This is New Year’s Eve, you know. All good things come at New Year — miracles come at New Year, Uncle.”
But the sweet buoyancy of her girlish spirits, which had been the sunshine of his life for so many years, was failing him at last, and putting her aside with petulant expressions he got up and went out at the back.
Then Anna, who had been sitting in silence by the table, took the Bible and four hymn-books from the corner cupboard and rang the bell for prayers.
“I wonder why I did that?” she said. “I forgot that Eric was gone. I hope he found shelter somewhere, poor boy — I should pity a dog that had to be out of doors on a night like this.”
And then Elin, in default of Magnus, read the lesson which Anna had marked for her. It was the psalm beginning, “The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want.” And when the short chapter was finished the two women stood up and sang a hymn — Elin in the silvery treble of youth and Anna in the husky tones of age, they two only in the lonely house among the solitary hills, with nothing about them but the darkness and the snow — nothing but that and the immeasurable wings of God.
“Happy the man whose tender care
Relieves the poor distressed;
When he by trouble’s compassed round
The Lord will give him rest.”
Anna sat down when the hymn was ended, but Elin continued to stand by the table, and closing her eyes with her innocent face uplifted, she said a little prayer for herself.
“O Father,” she said, “bless Uncle Magnus, so that he may fear no evil. Show me how to help him, so that I may not be a burden and a care. Dear Jesus, send the miracle that will save Uncle Magnus and grandma and me. It will be such a little thing to you, but such a great, great thing to us, and we shall all be so happy and dwell in the house of the Lord for ever. For Christ’s sake. Amen.”
Then she opened her trustful eyes and said, “I’m sure He will, grandma,” and kissing Anna she said “Good night” in a cheery voice and went off to bed.
Prayers being over, Magnus returned to the hall and began to rake out the stove for the night. The clouds hung heavier on him than ever, and thinking to banish them Anna talked of Elin.
“She grows more and more like her mother, and sometimes I think it can only be a dream that our dear Thora is dead. If you had heard her praying for the miracle it would have filled your heart brimful. She has gone to bed quite certain that the miracle will come before morning.”
“It would have to be a miracle to help us now, mother,” said Magnus. “And miracles don’t happen — except such of them as we make for ourselves.”
“What do you mean by that, Magnus?” said Anna, lighting the candles.
“I mean — if I had to live my life over again, I shouldn’t try to do what is right, mother.”
“You wouldn’t do what is wrong, would you?”
“There is no wrong and no right, mother; there is only what is best, and if I had to begin over again, I should do what was best — best for myself and for the people about me.”
“You don’t know what you are saying, Magnus. There are moments when it might seem to be best to rob, even to kill—”
“And why not?” said Magnus — he was bolting the door. “If a man came to this house to-night with eight thousand crowns in his pocket, do you think I should hesitate to take them?”
“My son, you don’t mean it.”
“I do!”
“You are driven to despair, Magnus, and a despairing man’s words belong to the wind. If I thought you meant it I should die — I should die this very minute.”
She was crying and there was silence for a moment, and then Magnus said —
“Never mind, mother. It doesn’t matter whether I meant it or not, the temptation isn’t likely to come to me. Give me the candle and let us go to bed.”
“You have borne a terrible burden, Magnus, and if I could only have helped you to bear it—”
“You have, mother. If it had not been for you and Elin I should have gone under ten years ago.”
“Your father knew he had robbed you of your inheritance, and perhaps that helped to kill him in the end.”
“It wasn’t father’s fault altogether. He tried to do what was right, too. But the poor wretch who comes after the prodigal gleans in a barren field, you know.”
With their candles in hand they were turning to go — Anna to the badstofa above, and Magnus to the guest-room off the hall — when the dogs, who had risen again, and were snuffling at the bottom of the door, began to growl and bark.
“There’s somebody coming,” said Magnus.
A moment later there was a sharp knock at the window, as with the metal end of a riding-whip, and a tremulous, high-pitched voice outside, making the customary Icelandic salutation, “God be with you!”
They looked at each other in blank surprise, while backward thoughts galloped through their minds, and then Magnus, forgetting to give the customary reply, walked back to the door, and threw it open. —
There was a dull thud of heavy feet on the outside steps, and at the next moment a man stood on the threshold. He seemed to be an old man, for his eyebrows, beard, and moustache, and as much as could be seen of his hair under the peaked hood of his ulster, were white with snow. One moment he stood there as if breathless after his journey, looking from Magnus to the mother, and from the mother to Magnus. Then he said, in the same tremulous voice as before —
“Can I have a bed here to-night, and shelter for my horse?” It seemed to Anna that he spoke to her, but instead of answering immediately, she looked across at Magnus with helpless eyes that were full of inexpressible fears. Magnus looked back at his mother and hesitated for an instant, while he held the door open with his hand. Then —
“Come in, sir,” he said, and the stranger stepped into the house.
END OF PART VI
PART VII
“The ball no question makes of ayes and noes,
But right or left as strikes the player goes;
And He who tossed thee down into the field,
He knows about it all — He knows — HE knows.”
I
“THE little mare is hot — she’ll want a rub down and a rest before you give her a feed.”
“I’ll see to that, sir,” said Magnus, and he went out and pulled the door after him.
Christian Christiansson had taken two paces into the hall, and was standing there like a man who is dazed. His heart was thumping against his ribs, and his pulse was beating violently, and he felt that he would fall if he took another step forward. So often had he pictured himself in that place that he could not at first believe in the reality. Coming out of the darkness, the light of the candles dazzled him, but he looked round the room, trying to remember. At one glance he took in everything — the old portraits on the wall, the old Bornholme clock in the corner, the stove and the armchair in front of it — and, fresh from the warm comfort of Government House, the Inn-farm seemed bare and bleak. This sent a chill pang of remorse to his mind, and the pain of conscience increased when he looked at his mother.
Her hair was white that had once been dark, and her face, which had been full of the loveliness of love and the beauty of happiness, was scored deep with lines of suffering. His heart yearned over her, and notwithstanding his determination not to reveal his identity until morning, it was as much as he could do to restrain himself from saying as well as he could for the emotion that was mastering him, “Mother, don’t you know me? I am Oscar,” and then throwing his arms about her dear neck as he had always meant to do.
Meantime Anna, who had recovered her self-control and was lighting the lamp that swung from the ceiling, glanced across at the new-comer and thought, “He’s nearly frozen stiff, and no wonder.” With that thought she bustled about to rekindle the stove, and called on him to remove his snow-covered clothing.
“Won’t you take off your cloak and boots, sir?” she said, and though the question was so commonplace he could not answer immediately, for his voice would not come.
“Your cloak and boots, sir, and I’ll put them to dry by the stove.”
“Ah yes, of course, certainly.”
She stood by him while he threw off his ulster and shook the snow from his hair and beard, emerging a younger and stronger man, but she only thought, “A stranger, I suppose. Why does he travel in this weather?”
When he had pulled off his riding-boots, she brought him a pair of Magnus’s slippers and said —
“You must have had a terrible ride, sir.”
“It was pretty bad certainly,” he said, and after that he got on better.
“A gentleman must have been anxious to get on with his journey to travel on a day like this.”
“I was — I had something to do at the end of it.”
“Have you come far, sir?”
“Altogether? Yes, very far.”
“From Reykjavik perhaps?”
“Farther than that — from England.”
“From England!”
“From London.”
As he stooped to put on the slippers he thought his mother was looking at him, and he trembled between fear and hope of being recognised.
“I suppose,” he said — his head was down—” I suppose you’ve never been as far as that, landlady?
“No, sir.”
“Nor any of your family?”
He could not resist the temptation to say this, but his mother did not seem to hear him — she was on her knees, breaking sticks into the stove.
“Sit up and warm yourself, sir. My son raked out the fire, but these sticks will burn presently. You are here on business, I suppose?”
“Yes, I’m here on business.”
Anna thought of the auction and waited for the stranger to speak of it. When he did not do so she said, “Travellers come from England to buy sheep and ponies, but they don’t often come in the winter, sir.”
Still he did not speak (he was thinking of Elin and looking round for any trace of her), and rising from the stove Anna said —
“But you’ll be hungry after your long ride — what can I give you to eat?”
“Anything at all — anything you have ready.”
“I’m afraid I have nothing ready — that is to say nothing that is good enough for the like of you, sir.”
As soon as he could find his voice after that he said, “Don’t you always keep smoked mutton in an Iceland house?”
