The Golden House

There was a sharp prick from Alma's conscience in the midst of her evident satisfaction. Her father had said this jewellery would some day belong to her, and had even, at her special request, allowed her to have the now sacrificed treasures in her own keeping. "They were to be mine. They are mine," she said to herself. "I have offered them. I shall never wear them now. My mother in heaven would approve of what I have done." Here her conscience gave her a cruel pang. She was inclined to open again the velvet-lined box, and lay the jewellery where it had so long rested, but that was impossible without opening the little locked door of the treasure-house. That she had vowed to herself she would not do before the time appointed – a time she was now most anxious should soon arrive.

At this moment Alma heard the sound of footsteps. She thrust the case into its drawer, locked it and dropped the key into her pocket like one disturbed in a dishonest act rather than in a noble deed. There was a loud knock at the door. Alma opened it, and Frans stood before her.

"What do you want here?" she said impatiently.

"I can't find papa," said Frans. "I wanted to tell him that it went 'bully' for me at the examination this morning. I thought perhaps your highness might like to know it too. The teachers seem to think I shall stand 'tip-top' in my report."

"I don't believe you will deserve it," said Alma sharply. "I never see you studying."

"But I have studied lately, more than I ever studied in my life. I didn't go to bed a single night last week before one o'clock."

"You ought to be ashamed to tell it!" said Alma reprovingly. "You know papa don't allow you to sit up late."

"I shall tell him about it myself, and I know papa will excuse me," said Frans, in high spirits.

The colonel did excuse Frans, and was delighted to hear of his success, though he did not fail to say it was hard to make up by such forced studying for neglect during the term, and a thing that he hoped would never be needed again.

Frans was in a glorious good-humour during the short time he allowed himself for lunch, and made his pony fly as he hurried back to school immediately afterwards.

The school was in a village about twenty minutes' ride from the colonel's home. The afternoon session was over, and yet Frans did not return. The colonel was very anxious about his son. He feared that he had been induced to celebrate his success in some wild frolic, and sent in a messenger to search after him.

The report came back that Frans had done very badly at school during the latter part of the day, and had ridden off at full speed, evidently in a very bad humour at his failure.

Later in the evening the pony came home, riderless, and sorrow settled on the household at Ekero.

"It is only some foolish trick that Frans is playing upon us!" Alma had said at first, but as the hours wore away she too had become really anxious.

The colonel, who went himself at once to the village, came home late, discouraged and distressed. Telegraphing and sending off messengers in every direction had been in vain. The morning brought terrible news. A theft had been committed in a shop near the schoolhouse the evening before, and an older pupil of bad repute had disappeared. It was generally whispered that he and Frans had gone off together.

Alma's feelings can easily be imagined. Shame, anger, righteous indignation, and real distress were strangely mingled together. Her father left home as soon as these horrible rumours were told him. Alma was alone all day, save when she was called on to hear the moans of the housekeeper over her "dear boy who had gone wrong; such a sweet boy as he had always been towards her."

At such a mention of himself Frans would have been much astonished, as this faithful friend of the family had not failed to set his shortcomings fully before him. She now reproached Alma for not making home more pleasant for her brother, for "worrying and worrying at him until he had no peace of his life. Such a knowing boy as he was, too, with the ways and doings of beasts and birds at his tongue's end. As for the Swedish kings, he could tell stories about them all a long midsummer day, if a body had patience to listen. And he not do well at an examination!" and the housekeeper snapped her fingers in contempt of the whole pedagogical corps.

To these various forms of lamenting Alma listened in convicted silence. She was glad of any company in the dismal loneliness of the house, and felt she deserved much blame, if not all the burden of responsibility that was cast upon her, for Frans's misdoings.

The colonel had been unwearied in his efforts to find his son; but when he was at last convinced that he had gone off in company with a boy suspected of actual theft, he would not seek for his son to be brought home to public trial and possible conviction. The authorities might find the boys if they could, he would take no further steps in the matter.

The colonel locked himself into his room, and not even Alma's gentle knock was answered. Like the housekeeper, he had a deep sense of Alma's coldness and bitterness towards her brother, and he understood how Frans must have dreaded to meet her after his disgrace at the examination. He understood, too, how much Frans must have feared his displeasure; but that such a mother's son should be so degraded as to consort with a thief and possibly share his guilt! The thought was madness. He pictured the desperate boy, flying perhaps to a far country, to suffer, and sin and go down to the lowest depths of degradation. The prayer burst forth from the depths of the colonel's heart, "God have mercy on my son! God have mercy on me, a sinner!" There was a thoroughgoing penitence in that closed room. The colonel's whole life stood before him, with all its shortcomings and its sins. To the world it had been an outwardly blameless life, but within there had been an uncertain faith, a half-heartedness, an indecision in his inner life, that ill befitted one who so well knew the love and purity of his heavenly Father. He cast himself upon his knees, to rise forgiven, and strengthened to lead a decided, devoted Christian life. With his own humiliation came back his tenderness towards his absent, erring boy.

When the door was opened at last to Alma, she saw the traces of sorrow and deep emotion on her father's face. She threw herself into his arms, exclaiming, "Dear, dear papa!" She could say no more. He gently closed the door by which she had entered. No human being ever knew the words that then passed between them, but they were henceforward to be bound together by a new and a holier tie than ever before.

CHAPTER XV.

THE BIRTHDAY GIFT

In the midst of the shadow over the household at Ekero, Alma's birthday had come. No festivities could be thought of. No birthday table was decked for her with flowers and gifts. Her father had not even remembered the fact that she was now eighteen years old until the evening came on. The housekeeper, a thorough Swede in all things, could not forget such an anniversary; but she was in no mood towards Alma to prompt to any particular kindness in that direction, or any festal preparations.

The father and daughter were sitting quietly together in the study in the evening. "Alma," he began, "I have just remembered that it must be your birthday. It has been a sad, neglected birthday for you, my child; but it shall not pass altogether without notice. Give me the jewel-case that has been in your charge, and the key too, dear. I have, of course, meant that you should have these things that were so peculiarly associated with your dear mother's younger days. The watch you can wear at once, as your own does not seem to keep good time. Hers was an excellent time-keeper, and it will remind you to be exact and true, and gentle and holy, like your dear mother. I shall take real pleasure in seeing you wear it. Go, daughter, at once! I am glad I thought of something that will please you on your birthday."

Alma obeyed mechanically, and returned quickly with the empty case in her hand, hoping that when the critical moment came she should be able to explain herself satisfactorily. She gave the casket into her father's hands, and waited in a silence so natural under the circumstances that he did not notice it.

There was no sparkle from the dark cushions, but a sudden, astonished sparkle in the colonel's eyes. "Empty, Alma! What does this mean?" he exclaimed.

"I have given them away," she said, blushing very deeply.

"Given them away!" repeated the colonel, slowly and sternly.

"I have given them for a good object, very dear to my heart. I am sure you would approve of it. Please, papa, do not ask me any more about it now. I do not want to tell you yet. It is a secret. I have promised, just to myself, and almost to God, never to tell any one until a certain thing is accomplished – until I can fully succeed."

"What is the matter with you, child? Have you lost your senses? You had no right to give away things intrusted to your care. I have told you that, by your mother's simple will, all she had was left at my disposition. Am I to be disappointed in both my children?" and the colonel bowed his head upon his hands.

"Dear papa, you are not to be disappointed in me! I have done nothing wrong." Here Alma's conscience gave her a sharp prick. Suddenly she broke out, after a moment's pause, "I want to be like the princess. I am sure that would please you, papa! You know she sold her jewels for a home for the sick poor."

The colonel answered seriously: "The princess is a saintly woman, and you would do well to follow her example. She sold her jewels to build a home for the aged sick, but she did not do it, princess and grown woman as she was, until she had asked the consent of her mother and her brother the king. What have you done, my child? What have you been thinking of? You must explain yourself fully. I have a right to demand it!"

Alma again left the room, to return with the little yellow house in her hands. "Here is my savings-box, papa," she said; "Nono made it for me."

A flush of pleasure came over the face of the colonel. "So exactly like Karin's cottage!" he exclaimed. "What a clever little boy! I like him."

"I thought – I thought," said Alma, encouraged by her father's smile – "I thought I would like to have a home for sick little children. I wanted to save my money to do something really good and lasting, instead of fooling it away by giving a little here and there, that did not after all do much good to anybody. I have saved all I could, and have given nothing away for anything else, but it went very slowly, and then I thought of those ornaments that were to be mine, and – I really did not think you would care." Here Alma blushed, and added, "I hoped you would not mind!" and her tears fell fast.

"My poor child!" said the colonel, as he put his arm around her and drew her to his side. "So this is the explanation of the change that had passed over you, and had given me so much pain! – my little Alma, who loved so dearly to give, and who has lately been so hard and cold that the very idea of an appeal from a poor family seemed to close her heart and stiffen her face into determined opposition. You cannot be a princess, dear, and do some great thing. I am afraid there was more pride than holy love in your plan. You should not think of yourself when you want to do good, but of your heavenly Master and his suffering brothers. Remember that! That was your dear mother's way. Self seemed dead in her. If she could but have lived to teach you by her beautiful example! It is not in seeking to do some great thing that we are in the right path. The little things that come to us day by day and hour by hour are safest for most Christians, and surely so for beginners. Where is the key to this locked little house?"

Alma produced the key at once, and placed it in her father's hands. He might open that small door if he pleased. She fancied it would be almost wrong to do it herself.

The door was opened, and there, among small coins and great, lay the jewels. The crystal of the watch had been broken by some falling contribution. The colonel took the watch in his hand, and said, —

"This can easily be repaired. You must wear it constantly; and may it remind you that the best gifts to God are those that are offered humbly, modestly, with no thought of self, and with no desire for the praise of man. If the little watch can so remind you of your duty, it will be a holy messenger to you, and so in a way set apart to the service of God. You have unwisely given, as you thought, the diamonds to the poor. We will not take them back. Your dear mother had not herself worn them for many years. They shall be sold, and you may send the money anonymously to any hospital for children where help is needed. So you will keep your motives. With the money lying in the little cottage you can have the joy of helping the suffering poor; but you had better consult with me as to how to use it. It is not to be thrown away now lavishly on every applicant, to do perhaps more harm than good. Lay the jewels in the case and lock the door of the little cottage." He was going to add, "Remember, Alma, that one kind word from you to your brother is a better offering for you than much money given in charity." The words were not spoken. He but said, "Poor Frans! where is he? God help my boy!"

Alma put her arm round her father's neck and whispered, "Dear papa, if Frans comes home – when he comes home, I do really mean to be more kind to him than ever before; but he – "

"No 'buts,' Alma," said the father. "However far wrong your brother has gone, he is still your brother, your only brother, and it will be your duty to love him, and pray for him, and watch over him with tender affection. He has no mother. You must be to him all that a good sister can be."

"Papa!" said Alma, deeply moved, "you are too gentle towards me. I do not deserve it. I half felt all the while that I might be doing wrong about those things that did not really belong to me. I see it now very plainly. I would not listen to my conscience. I see I had a foolish pride in what I was trying to do. I did not see it clearly then, but now I know I was taking possession of what did not really belong to me – I who have been so angry with Frans, so ashamed even to think of him as my brother! I don't know what I should have been if I had fallen into temptation, and had had a bad companion to lead me on! Please, please, papa, forgive me! I know you do; but I cannot forgive myself! I am sure the sight of dear mamma's watch ought always to make me humble."

"May God help you and keep you from all evil!" said the father solemnly, as he kissed his daughter and bade her good-night.

CHAPTER XVI.

SPECTACLES

The news of the disappearance of Frans had brought gloom to the golden house. There he had been lovingly received, and had appeared at his best. Nono was clear in his mind that Frans had had nothing to do with the theft, however wrong he might have done in running away and causing his friends such painful anxiety.

Jan shut his mouth firmly and went about in determined silence. Karin cried as if it had been her own boy who had gone wrong.

"He hasn't had any mother to look after him," said Nono, and he patted Karin tenderly. "If you could have had him it would have been quite different, I am sure."

"That is a fact," said one of the twins.

"A solid fact!" echoed the other.

Karin smiled for a moment kindly, and then said soberly, "If only Uncle Pelle were here! I should so like to know what he would say."

Old Pelle had gone on his pedestrian trip. Not that he had any sportsman accoutrements, or used any slang as to the particulars of his expedition. In one respect he was prepared for his excursion on the strictest modern principles. He was lightly equipped as to clothing, and in woollen garments from top to toe. Better still, he had a light heart within, and a thankful one. He was out on a pleasant errand.

Pelle was now a settled resident in the parish where the golden cottage stood, with occupation pledged to him while he had strength to work, and a support as long as life lasted. The colonel had settled that matter; and Karin rejoiced to see the shadows cleared from the old man's future, with the bright prospect of his continuing to be "a blessing" to them, as she said, "while he was above the green grass."

Pelle had left a few trifles at the poorhouse, where he had been grudgingly received during his last long attack of serious illness. He had before been unable to make up his mind to go after his small belongings. There had been lingering in the depths of his heart a germ of bitterness about the whole affair, and he had been afraid it might spring into strong life if he returned to see the old place again. Now the rankling, tormenting thoughts had vanished in the sunshine that had come to him, and he was sure it would be pleasant to see the familiar scenes again, and to take well-known people by the hand in a friendly way, and let bygones be bygones.

Pelle had been rowed over to the opposite side of the bay, to avoid an unnecessary bit of walking; and now that he was expected home, Nono was sent across the water to meet him. Nono was already in the boat and taking up the oars, when Alma came strolling along the shore with her hands full of wild flowers, for she had been botanizing. "Let me row with you," she said eagerly to Nono.

"Yes," said Nono; "I am going after Uncle Pelle. But the boat – " and he looked at Alma's light dress, and then at the traces left of the last trip of the fishermen to whom the boat belonged.

"Never mind that," said Alma cheerily. "I can manage my dress, and I do so love to row." She seated herself and took up a pair of oars.

It was a long pull across the bay, and they were only half over when they saw a sail-boat in front of them, making for the wider part of the inlet.

"Not very good sailors, I think," said Nono critically, for Pelle had taught him how to trim a sail. He had hardly spoken the word when a flaw struck the little skiff they were watching, and it capsized instantly. There was a loud shriek from the place of the accident, and a groan from Nono and Alma. They could soon see two heads, and arms clinging to the upturned boat. Alma and Nono rowed desperately towards the spot, but made slow progress, as the bay had suddenly grown rough, and the wind was contrary. They could distinguish the faces now. One was unknown, but Alma's eyes grew large and full of anguish as she recognized her brother. "It is Frans!" she said to Nono.

"Yes," was his only reply, and they pulled with even more determination than before. In a few moments Frans and his companion were taken on board by Alma and Nono.

"Frans!" said Alma, as she laid her hand in his, "I was so afraid – I was so afraid we should not reach you in time. You can swim; why didn't you start out for us?"

"Knut here can't swim, and of course I couldn't leave him. I knew I couldn't keep him up and make my way to you. It was better for us to hold fast as long as we could."

A well-manned boat was now seen coming towards them from the shore. The strong rowers soon brought it to their side. Knut looked meaningly at Frans, but was silent.

"We must have those young fellows," said the person in command, who was evidently an officer of justice.

The dripping boys changed their quarters without a word. Frans turned and looked at Alma as the boat he had entered headed for the shore. "Thank you, sister," he called out; "you rowed like a man!"

He had never called her "sister" before. Alma's eyes filled with tears. She moved as if to row after her brother.

"Uncle Pelle will be expecting us. I think I see him there waiting," said Nono. "We must go for him." Nono was decided. This was the errand on which he was sent, and the duty must be done, even though Miss Alma might be displeased with him. Alma looked impatient, but after a moment she began to move her pair of oars willingly as she said, "You are right, Nono," and relapsed into silence.

When Pelle came on board, Nono did not say anything about what had happened until Pelle himself, who had seen the whole from the shore, asked what it all meant, and who the boys were who had so mismanaged their boat, "green hands" as he could see.

"You can tell him, Nono," said Alma. "He will have to know it all. But I am so glad Frans was not drowned!"

Alma looked straight forward over the water, while Nono, as kindly as he could, told in a few words all the sad story to Pelle, who listened in silence; but towards the close a strange gleam of intelligence came into his eyes. Pelle never talked if he were not in the humour, and now Nono was not surprised that no answer came from the old man's firmly-closed lips.

Alma was the first to step ashore. With a hurried nod to her companions she moved off swiftly towards her home.

"Now pull for town – pull, Nono!" said Pelle, with unusual energy, taking up himself the oars that Alma had laid down.

Pull they did, tired as were Nono's young arms, and feeble as were Pelle's. The distance was short by water, and the two were soon at the magistrate's office, where Pelle expected to find the delinquent boys. They were already there. Their wet clothes had been changed, and they were for the moment in private conversation with the colonel, who had been summoned immediately on their arrival.

In the pocket of the dripping coat that had been worn by Frans a bundle of the missing bank-notes had been found, carelessly rolled in a bit of yellow wrapping-paper. This all the by-standers about the door had heard, for the proceedings at the country seat of justice seem to be considered to belong to the small public of the neighbourhood.

While Pelle was waiting without, Nono having been sent back at once with the boat, the colonel was holding Frans by the hand, and talking to him from the depths of his stirred paternal heart.

"I have you, Frans, as one alive from the dead, and so I must talk to you," said the colonel solemnly. "Don't answer me; don't speak a word, Frans! – And you, boy," and he turned towards Knut, "keep quiet. No excuses; no explanations from either of you! – I want to say to you, Frans, what I should have longed to say to you if you had sunk in that deep water. I have not watched over you as I should, my boy. I take my share in the blame of what you have done. I have been too wrapped up in my own sorrows, my own ill-health, and my own melancholy reflections, to be to you what I ought to have been. I find I love you most intensely, and your loss would have been a terrible blow to me. Your bright face gone for ever from the home would have made it dreary indeed. You have caused me great sorrow by running away, and have, I fear, been guilty of that for which the law must punish you."

Frans stirred as if about to speak.

"Silence!" said his father sternly. "The missing bank-notes were some of them found in your coat pocket. You had no such money when you left home; you will be called on to account for its being there."

Frans stared speechlessly at his father, and then looked at his companion.

"He's been free with money since we were out," said Knut; "but I supposed such high-fliers had always no end of cash on hand, and never suspected anything more than the boys' frolic we started out for when we found it had gone contrary for us at school."

"Papa!" began Frans eagerly.

At the moment an officer came in to say, "There is an old man outside – old Pelle everybody calls him – who says he must see the boys; that it is most important for them." The magistrate and Pelle and several other solemn-looking individuals entered the room.

Pelle looked first at Frans and then at his companion. The strange gleam came again into his eyes as he bowed to all present and asked to be allowed to tell his story. Permission to speak was authoritatively given him, and he began, —

"About four hours ago I was standing by the bay, up at Trolleudden, when I saw that young fellow," pointing at Knut, "come up to a chap who had a sail-boat there to let to the summer villa people. The boy wanted a boat for a trip down the bay. He was willing to pay handsomely, he said, and he did, with a bank-note, though he didn't look as if he were much used to handling that sort of thing. I somehow thought there must be something wrong about it. Then I went up to the little inn to get a glass of milk and a bit of bread. When I came into the sitting-room, there was a boy there, who sat with his arms on the table, and his head on his hands, with his hat tipped down so over his eyes that I couldn't see his face. He was dressed like a workman, with a leather apron on, and a coarse shirt, and an old overcoat outside, though it was so warm I was glad to go in my flannel sleeves. There was something queer about the boy. I could see his hands. They were not very clean, to be sure, but they didn't look as if they had seen much real work. I soon got through thinking about the boy, who seemed to be asleep. I finished my bread and milk, and took out my book to read while I rested, and quite forgot where I was. Suddenly I heard somebody steal into the room, tiptoe up, and stand behind me. I kept quite still, but on the watch, for I felt all was not right. As I looked into my spectacles I saw who it was that was so near me. Often in church I see the person who is standing behind me. I don't know how it is, but I do, as if my spectacles were a looking-glass. I didn't like the sly, bad face right before my eyes. I could not help seeing it between me and the book, and I knew it was the lad who had hired the boat. In a second an arm was stretched forward towards the boy who was sitting very near me, the other side of the corner of the table, and a little yellow parcel was tucked into the pocket of his great-coat. I had nothing to say in the matter, and did not let on that I noticed it. It might be some young folks' frolic. I am not used to meddle in other people's business, but I generally know what goes on round me. The face went out of my spectacles, and the door shut quietly. I finished my reading and went out. Those boys I have not seen again to know them till I meet the very same here."