Part 25

"Thanks."

And this was the marriage they had considered not worthy of the name! What was Josephine's compared to this!

She slipped from the chair down upon her knees. She wept and sobbed--and forced herself to silence that no one might discover her crouching there in the shame of her crime. She folded her hands on Ragni's letter, and laid her head down on them, whispering: "Forgive me, forgive me!" though she knew that none could hear her, and that none, none could forgive her.

In a moment, she understood that Ragni had been pure in her first marriage; and that there too she had been slandered! The papers telling how this marriage had been arranged--she did not need to read them, she could not. With clammy hands she collected all the papers together, Ole must read them. Now he must help her; her life was at stake. She had committed murder, the murder of an innocent person. Not by her words or prompting, for she had said nothing. But it was just her silence, and her having that very first day repelled Ragni--just on that account the poor thing had been hopelessly lost; this all flashed through her mind like lightning; she lay there like one deaf and paralysed. The doom she had read in her brother's eyes, the death-doom--and she had not been mistaken, it was not intended for her son, it was intended for herself. She deserved death!

She was seized with horror, a cold sweat broke out over her like a stunning blow--now it was at hand!

Yes, now it was at hand! She had thought all was over when her boy was well again; but no, now it had come, now that she had regained her happiness in her husband and a firm footing altogether--now it overtook and aimed a deadly blow at her.

She hurried down to the study whilst Tuft was still at his supper and put the envelope on his desk; she had on her hat and a shawl, and now she ran rather than walked toward her brother's house; now it must break or bend.

Passing by a short cut she came right on the church. She remembered Ole's last sermon and the tears came to her eyes; for only think what it would have been if their mutual life had had such free scope and such aims from the first! She wept as she hurried down toward the terrible house. She could see the white wall of the other house shining through the foliage to the left, the house Kule lived in, Kule the murderous instrument. No, no, no, she had not asked him to come; she had had no share in it whatever! Yes, she had heard it suggested and had thought it was quite a fair proceeding. Some had looked upon it as a good joke, others had taken it seriously, even religiously; Josephine could remember each word to which she had tacitly agreed; each thought, too, that she had had.

Murder, murder! She knew there was no forgiveness for her; of what use was it to go to her brother? He had saved her child--but beyond that he would have nothing whatever to do with her. All the same, from henceforth she was nailed to that spot; even though she might die there. She ran with all her might.

Her life was branded, after this she could never again look an honest person in the face. Cruelly and coldly she had killed an utterly, wholly innocent being, and had laid bare her brother's home! Henceforth where could she live? What should she do now? Seek her just punishment! Yes, but she would administer it herself. But first she must see him, hear him, and herself speak to him--yes, for she had something to say; he did not even know how she loved him and had always loved him, he hardly knew her. She ran on, weeping.

She saw him standing in the yard between the house and the out-houses, bending over something he was carrying; she saw him above the currant and gooseberry bush hedge visible through the opening of the taller fruit-trees. She shuddered, but she kept on her way. Soon she was under the trees of the park; then turned down to the yard; nothing divided them but the outhouse wall; then she came quite forward.

He stood with turned-up sleeves--his cuffs were off--in a yellow tussore silk coat, the same probably in which he had arrived two years ago, washing a travelling trunk under the pump; all the labels pasted on by the railway people, one on top of the other, were to be taken off; was he thinking of going away? He was sun-burnt and thin, seen in profile his face seemed sharper; then he heard her step and looked up--looked up into her tear-stained beseeching face! No trace of her former bright-coloured dresses; a dark cotton dress with a belt round her waist, a broad, shady, straw hat with a brown ribbon, a shawl hanging on her arm. Her tears burst forth, bitterly, despairingly: "Edward!" she could get no further.

For he dropped the trunk and drew himself upright; a voice with a sort of break in it said:

"I can not forgive you, Josephine."

"Edward, let me explain myself!" She turned to the house, in horror and despair at his stern face; but he fancied she wanted to go in.

"You shall never enter there!" and he put his hands on his sides as though he were keeping guard.

XIII.

Tuft left the supper-table and went into his study; but he did not notice the envelope as he did not look at the desk. He went for a walk, which he often did in the evenings; if Josephine had been down she would have gone with him, he thought. He walked for an hour; it was Saturday and he got ready his sermon for the morrow. When he got home he sat down by the window with a book he was in want of; he read, he dawdled about, and read again till ten o'clock.

He went up to bed but did not find Josephine, neither was she in her own room, in fact, nowhere all over the house. Then he went down to the study again, he would wait for her down there; but where could she be? Gone to see some sick person? He knew of none. In mere absence of mind he took up the envelope as he passed the desk; his name was outside--was it written in Josephine's hand? He turned hot and went to the window the better to see. There was no seal; but on the top of several papers lay a little note with the following words from Josephine:

"I have gone to him for my life's sake."

What was the meaning of this?

A quarter of an hour later Tuft was on his way past the church; he, too, rather ran than walked. He was the only guilty one; long ago it was he who had given Josephine to understand that Ragni had been unfaithful to her first husband, and had thereby started everything that had since happened! And unless it had been that he was jealous of his brother-in-law, he would hardly have taken their breach with the church, their intercourse with scoffers, as sufficient reason for keeping away and avoiding them. Even if his brother-in-law were to answer that Josephine was not sufficiently a Christian to join in persecuting Ragni on that account; nor could she for that reason at once think the worst of a freethinker, then Tuft would answer that it is not true Christians who do such things, but only those who are half-Christians. That man whose love for God has become the law of his life never judges; but so much the more eagerly do the others do it. Josephine had been so situated that she could not become more than a half-Christian; these theological studies stop a man's growth.

How clearly he saw it all now! He could not bear, therefore, to think of her in her soul's distress; he ran so fast that he arrived panting through the park, the yard, and up on to the steps. The front door was locked--was it not more than ten o'clock? He rang, and rang again, heard steps in the passage, it was the step of a man, Kallem himself opened the door.

"Is Josephine not here?"

"No."

"Has she not been here?"

"Yes, about an hour and a half ago."

"Well?"

"I forbade her to enter."

"You did not even speak to her?"

"No."

Then Tuft, throwing out his right hand: "Now you, too, are ruled by dogmas," turned his back on him and went off again. His broad hat over his broad shoulders had the effect of broadly accentuating his last words.

Shortly after eleven the bell rang again, just in the same way. Kallem came out at once, he had evidently not been in bed yet.

It was Tuft who was there again; but as far as Kallem could see, without being near him, he appeared like another man, horrified and harrowed.

"Where do you think she can have gone to, Edward?"

"I think she must have gone to Ragni's grave."

A choking sob, a visible welling-up of grief, and he turned and went away. His heavy footfall was heard far off through the stillness of the grove.

Toward one o'clock there was again a ring at the door, but this time it was only one single timid peal. Kallem heard it directly and came out from the room--he was still sitting up.

A woman stood there. Kallem, who was shortsighted, hurried up to her, but the voice proved to be Sissel Aune's. "Dear, kind doctor, be good and merciful!" Kallem thought she had come on his sister's behalf, and that something had happened; he shivered. But Sissel continued: "None but you can manage him; he gets quite mad every blessed night."

"Do you mean Anne?" shouted Kallem.

"Yes, he fancies he sees Kristen Larssen after him, so he rushes away through the town, into the wood and out on the high road; this is the third night, and I cannot stand it any longer. Dear, good doctor, I have no one but you to turn to," here she began to cry, "and no one else has any power over him but you."

Had the clever bookbinder and fiddler gone mad? Then had he freed himself from his power? Had he taken to drink again, was this delirium? No, no, he was "mad" from fear of Kristen Larssen's ghost. Kallem started directly with her.

The sky was clouded, and the night very dark; but a fresh northerly wind began to sweep the clouds away. It shook and rustled the trees by the roadside, whistling through the thick foliage and seeming to ask and ask all manner of things as they passed by. Was it not very strange that Aune, who had fooled people into believing in Kristen Larssen's ghost, should now be rushing about mad with terror of what he had himself set going? Every evening after dark, Sissel declared that Aune imagined Kristen Larssen was after him and going to take him to hell! At that instant a shriek was heard far off, one sharp, breathless call for help. It rose up like a spectre in the night, it seemed almost visible.

"There he is!" cried Sissel, clasping her hands. "Christ help us!" she shrieked, and began running.

But Kallem hurried after her: "You will only be slower like that, Sissel; go quietly--go quietly, I tell you!"

She obeyed at once, but turned eagerly to him: "Who but Satan can persecute a man like that!" she said, breathlessly. At the same moment a watch-dog began barking close by, it was startled by the cries and barked on without stopping. Kallem raised his voice above the barking:

"It does not follow that Aune is more beset by Satan, Sissel, than that angry bitch in there! Do you know how people found out Satan? They thought everything was created perfect and they were in want of somebody on whom to throw the blame when sin did come into the world."

The furious dog rushed at them just at that moment; Sissel fled over to Kallem.

"What a savage beast!" he exclaimed, and stooped to pick up a stone. The dog retreated a few paces. There came a fresh shriek, nearer than the first one, a call for help with a last expiring gasp; they shuddered, the very dog stopped short. Then it swung round and dashed past them in the direction of the ghost.

"God help us, now he will be hurt!" said Sissel, crying and hurrying onwards; "the mad man must not be exposed to the dog's attack!"

But they heard it bark as though a wild beast were confronting it and going to fasten its teeth in it; so they both ran as hard as they could; Kallem was at once far past Sissel. It could hardly be Aune who was in danger; the last shriek had not been so near; the furious beast had attacked the first person it came upon; and who could that be? Since he was a boy Kallem had not run so fast; he could hear by the dog that there was a fight and he pushed on with renewed strength. Soon he saw something large and black by the roadside near the corner of the wood, and it was before this that the dog had stopped. Once again a piercing shriek rang out through the night; it really came from there! What was that great black mass? Surely not an animal?

No, it was a man, a big man fighting with a smaller one, and a dog with both of them. The big man kept turning round and round hitting out at the dog, at the same time keeping fast hold of the other man with his left hand. Then Kallem recognized the broad hat and the broad shoulders; it was Tuft who was holding Aune, holding him with a giant's strength; the dog was trying to attack the latter, who kicked it away from him each time. Maybe Aune thought the dog was the devil and possessed by Kristen Larssen's spirit, for the little man kicked and wriggled, bit, hit out, and struggled to get free; he threw himself backwards and with the last remains of his hoarse voice he groaned, "Help! help!" If he had been frightened before, he became so now in good earnest as he saw Kallem's figure appear in the dim light; he let himself fall and began to howl. The dog flew at his leg directly. The minister lifted them both up; the beast was in such a rage that it did not see Kallem before it got a kick from his foot which sent it flying a few metres off! One short howl and a whine--a doctor knows where to hit--and they neither saw nor heard it again; it may have been dead.

Then Kallem took hold of Aune and the minister let him go. He, too, had been much maltreated; his coat was all torn and dragging on the ground, the sleeve hung in rags down over his hand, his flannel shirt likewise. He was bleeding from bites and scratches, but was so excited that he felt no pain. Kallem took little wretched Aune with both hands by the collar, lifted him up to his level, and, panting from his run and the rapid coursing of his blood, he stared straight into his eyes, until they grew wide open, dazed, and glassy, his mouth gaped, the muscles of the face relaxed, he hung there like a gutted herring. By the time that Sissel reached them, breathless and crying, Aune lay under the trees on the grass and slept. Both the men stood over him.

Kallem said that Aune could stay where he was; there would be no dew on account of the wind; they should be sent for later. He expected to be able to cure this madness.

The minister had taken off his coat, dried the blood, and bound up the worst places; then they turned towards home.

Not a word about Aune, or how it was he had come across him; but hardly were they out on the road before Tuft said piteously:

"She was not there, Edward, she was not there!" And shortly after: "I can think of nothing else; no, now I can think of nothing else. That you could send her away from you, Edward!" The thick foliage of the trees took up the murmur and kept on unceasingly: "That you could send her away, Edward!"

"Do you know what she wrote and put beside the letters from you? 'For my life's sake I go now to my brother's.'"

Kallem felt an icy chill. A thousand voices reechoed: "For my life's sake," and the sound drew nearer, encircling him closer and closer, till he could hardly draw breath.

The day was about to dawn; Tuft's scratched and shiny face was turned toward the rising sun as though he were imploring: "Mercy, mercy for her!" He hurried along as fast as he could; he did not know where to look for her, but he felt he must walk and walk. Kallem too.

"Oh, the horror of it, the horror of it!" he burst forth. "Do you remember the night of the storm in our childhood, Edward? We thought the world was at an end. Do you remember how frightened you were up on the hill the evening after? This whole night the 'deep-sea monsters' have been trying to reach me too. The horror of it! our soul's horror of the punishment of sins! From our childhood it drives away all our intelligence, just when we are most in need of it; we run away in despair--or cast ourselves down in the dust before God. Perchance later on we get rid of this dogma of terror, but never of its effects. As I was walking along thinking of this, I came across that madman. He leapt up; the terror was upon him; he thought I was a ghost and the dog the devil! And Josephine! She too is in despair and flees away. And you, Edward? You too must be swayed by terror if you can have the heart to torture her more than she now tortures herself. For that is the worst of terror, it hurts one; he who has been terrified himself, learns to terrify others!"

The words came from him heavily; his walk was heavy too as he plodded along. Kallem did not say a word; when he suffered he was silent.

But from a child the lay preacher's son had been accustomed to hear all life experiences converted into learning. His heart was bleeding; but he talked on all the time. Kallem ought not to doubt Josephine; she was the most honourable and truthful creature on the face of the earth. In this affair she had been led astray by him. In his deep pity for her, he laid bare her soul's history as he himself saw it, and proved to him clearly that if she were to be cast off now by her brother she could not live.

Occasionally Kallem interposed with a "Dear Ole," "Listen to me, Ole;" but never got any further. For even when they reached his home and he took his brother-in-law in with him to attend to his wounds, Tuft talked on without ceasing; it was as though his fear and uncertainty would have increased had he been silent; and then too Edward must see her as he saw her, and above all help her! "All who have gone astray must be helped; they who have sinned against us--as soon as they acknowledge it they must be helped above all others! God's forgiveness is, to help us on." He was still going on with his explanations as Kallem accompanied him to the door; his giant strength was unfailing. But supposing that she meanwhile had gone back to her child and to him. Certainly there was no great hope of it; but he hurried away.

It grew lighter. Kallem could not sleep, and at last could not remain at home. In fear, greater than he would own to his brother-in-law, he went in and out of the rooms, up and down as though the house were to be searched. For it was true enough that he too had both judged and condemned.

His sister had always been fonder of him than he of her. That time they had danced together last winter he could tell that her love for him had not diminished. Yes, even when he struck her--had she not come then to do him good? Her attack on Ragni that time----of course there was more than dogmatical narrow-mindedness in it--it was jealousy! Jealousy because he had become all in all to Ragni and was nothing to her. He could have brought those two women together; it was impossible to doubt that. Had he tried to do that?

The more he thought of it, the less right he had to be severe; for he was guilty too! His sister's great eyes, as he had seen them last evening, were resting on him now in her direst need, they seemed to gaze full at him. All her life long, confused and shy, when not carried away by passion, hampered by unnatural doctrines and defiant in her truthfulness--she had looked out for him, from year to month, from week to day. Then he came and had cast her off. Cast her off for one who was not worthy of him--so it seemed to her.

Poor, poor Josephine! He had thus never been anything for her, had only harmed her, and yet she in her faithfulness had always longed for him.

The rooms became oppressive and he felt afraid; he must go out and look for her. It was getting lighter and lighter and with the feeling that morning was near, he threw open the veranda doors; but he had nothing to do out there; on the contrary he would have to shut them again if he were really going out. So he stepped out to close them again and in doing so glanced on one side--and there, sheltered from the north wind by the veranda, sitting on Ragni's bench just under his office windows, was Josephine, with her shawl over her knees. She saw him and crouched down like a wounded bird, which cannot move away, yet must not be seen. And yet she was sitting there just to be seen. There was nowhere else she could be, for she had tried. He hurried down the steps toward her. Then she trembled:

"Oh, no, Edward, oh, no; let me stay," she implored and burst into tears. And even when he took her by the arm and raised her up she kept on beseeching him, weak as any child: "Oh, no, no, Edward, let me----" but she got no further, for she felt herself folded in his arms, and felt how he too was quivering with the emotion he could not control. He was not cruel, perchance he would listen to her, and she raised her arms and threw them round him mingling her tears with his; the brother and sister stood with their heads together, cheek resting upon cheek, all the similarity of their temperament, their first and oldest feelings, their love of homelike things, down to the very smell of their clothes in the passages at their parent's house, all this met together in their one desire never again to part.

And yet, when he began to move with her toward the veranda, she stopped; she could not believe that she would be allowed to go in. She looked at him through her tears; he forced her along, step by step. On the steps she again held back. But he led her on till they stood in the room; here she clasped her arms round him again and sinking down upon a chair, buried her face in her hands--everything in the room, he too, seemed listening to her sobs.

Then he went up to her and stroked her hair; but he knew it was not really he who did it, it was Ragni!

Arm in arm they walked that summer's night through the town that was so wide-awake, although everyone seemed asleep. The long steps of brother and sister hurried on, keeping time as of old; they said nothing about it, but they were looking for Ole; forgot the short cut and came down the road to the shore. Soon they turned up toward the minister's house. They had just gone a few steps along the road, when Josephine as it were felt drawn to look across the shore. She stopped directly and held back Edward.

"Yes, it is he!" she whispered.

Tuft came hurrying from out yonder, quickly, quickly, but with hanging head as though he could not bear it. In vain he had searched for her along the shore, he was now going on with his search further southward--quickly as ever, though ever in vain. They both understood, her arm trembled in that of her brother. She pressed closer up to him, for just a moment ago she had told him that had she been driven out of his garden, then----! Hush! They turned now and went to meet Ole. His quick ear heard the steps, he looked up, recognized her, opened his arms and could neither go a step further nor utter a sound. But Josephine left her brother's arm and went to him.

* * *

All three walked slowly homewards, the minister with Josephine on his arm, and Kallem at his other side. He said repeatedly: "God's ways! God's ways!"

"But I do not share your faith," Kallem felt bound to interpose.

"No, no, no, no," exclaimed the minister eagerly. "There where good people walk, those are God's ways."

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: One Norwegian mile = seven English miles.]

[Footnote 2: A Norwegian country-dance.]