The Girl from the Marsh Croft

"So it was you who found the knife!"

"I found it and I noticed that one of the blades had been broken off."

"Yes, father, I'm aware that the knife-blade is gone, but still I cannot get it into my head that I did it."

"It was probably done in the drunkenness and delirium."

"I know nothing; I remember nothing. I could see by my clothes that I had been in a fight and I knew that the knife-blade was missing."

"I understand that it was your intention to be silent about this," said the father.

"I thought that perhaps the rest of the party were as irresponsible as myself and I couldn't remember anything. There was perhaps no other evidence against me than the knife, therefore I threw it away."

"I comprehend that you must have reasoned in that way."

"You understand, father, that I do not know who is dead. I had never seen him before, I dare say. I have no recollection of having done it. I didn't think I ought to suffer for what I had not done knowingly. But soon I got to thinking that I must have been mad to throw the knife into the marsh. It dries out in summer, and then any one might find it. I tried last night and the night before to find it."

"Didn't it occur to you that you should confess?"

"No! Yesterday I thought only of how I could keep it a secret, and I tried to dance and be merry, so that no one would mark any change in me."

"Was it your intention to go to the bridal altar to-day without confessing? You were assuming a grave responsibility. Didn't you understand that if you were discovered you would drag Hildur and her kin with you into misery?"

"I thought that I was sparing them most by saying nothing."

They drove now as fast as possible. The father seemed to be in haste to arrive, and all the time he talked with his son. He had not said so much to him in all his life before.

"I wonder how you came to think differently?" said he.

"It was because Helga came and wished me luck. Then there was something hard in me that broke. I was touched by something in her. Mother, also, moved me this morning, and I wanted to speak out and tell her that I was not worthy of your love; but then the hardness was still within me and made resistance. But when Helga appeared, it was all over with me. I felt that she really ought to be angry with me who was to blame for her having to leave our home."

"Now I think you are agreed with me that we must let the Juryman know this at once," said the father.

"Yes," answered Gudmund in a low tone. "Why, certainly!" he added almost immediately after, louder and firmer. "I don't want to drag Hildur into my misfortune. This she would never forgive me."

"The Älvåkra folk are jealous of their honor, like the rest," remarked the father. "And you may as well know, Gudmund, that when I left home this morning I was thinking that I must tell the Juryman your position if you did not decide to do so yourself. I never could have stood silently by and let Hildur marry a man who at any moment might be accused of murder."

He cracked the whip and drove on, faster and faster. "This will be the hardest thing for you," said he, "but we'll try and have it over with quickly. I believe that, to the Juryman's mind, it will be right for you to give yourself up, and they will be kind to you, no doubt."

Gudmund said nothing. His torture increased the nearer they approached Älvåkra. The father continued talking to keep up his courage.

"I have heard something of this sort before," said he. "There was a bridegroom once who happened to shoot a comrade to death during a hunt. He did not do it intentionally, and it was not discovered that he was the one who had fired the fatal shot. But a day or two later he was to be married, and when he came to the home of the bride, he went to her and said: 'The marriage cannot take place. I do not care to drag you into the misery which awaits me.' But she stood, dressed in bridal wreath and crown, and took him by the hand and led him into the drawing-room, where the guests were assembled and all was in readiness for the ceremony. She related in a clear voice what the bridegroom had just said to her. 'I have told of this, that all may know you have practised no deceit on me.' Then she turned to the bridegroom. 'Now I want to be married to you at once. You are what you are, even though you have met with misfortune, and whatever awaits you, I want to share it equally with you.'"

Just as the father had finished the narrative, they were on the long avenue leading to Älvåkra. Gudmund turned to him with a melancholy smile. "It will not end thus for us," he said.

"Who knows?" said the father, straightening in the cart. He looked upon his son and was again astonished at his beauty this day. "It would not surprise me if something great and unexpected were to come to him," thought he.

There was to have been a church ceremony, and already a crowd of people were gathered at the bride's home to join in the wedding procession. A number of the Juryman's relatives from a distance had also arrived. They were sitting on the porch in their best attire, ready for the drive to church. Carts and carriages were strung out in the yard, and one could hear the horses stamping in the stable as they were being curried. The parish fiddler sat on the steps of the storehouse alone, tuning his fiddle. At a window in the upper story of the cottage stood the bride, dressed and waiting to have a peep at the bridegroom before he had time to discover her.

Erland and Gudmund stepped from the carriage and asked immediately for a private conference with Hildur and her parents. Soon they were all standing in the little room which the Juryman used as his study.

"I think you must have read in the papers of that fight in town last Saturday night, where a man was killed," said Gudmund, as rapidly as if he were repeating a lesson.

"Oh, yes, I've read about it, of course," said the Juryman.

"I happened to be in town that night," continued Gudmund. Now there was no response. It was as still as death. Gudmund thought they all glared at him with such fury that he was unable to continue. But his father came to his aid.

"Gudmund had been invited out by a few friends. He had probably drunk too much that night, and when he came home he did not know what he had been doing. But it was apparent that he had been in a fight, for his clothes were torn."

Gudmund saw that the dread which the others felt increased with every word that was said, but he himself was growing calmer. There awoke in him a sense of defiance, and he took up the words again: "When the paper came on Saturday evening and I read of the fight and of the knife-blade which was imbedded in the man's skull, I took out my knife and saw that a blade was missing."

"It is bad news that Gudmund brings with him," said the Juryman. "It would have been better had he told us of this yesterday."

Gudmund was silent; and now his father came to the rescue again. "It was not so easy for Gudmund. It was a great temptation to keep quiet about the whole affair. He is losing much by this confession."

"We may be glad that he has spoken now, and that we have not been tricked and dragged into this wretched affair," said the Juryman bitterly.

Gudmund kept his eyes fixed on Hildur all the while. She was adorned with veil and crown, and now he saw how she raised her hand and drew out one of the large pins which held the crown in place. She seemed to do this unconsciously. When she observed that Gudmund's glance rested upon her, she stuck the pin in again.

"It is not yet fully proved that Gudmund is the slayer," said his father, "but I can well understand that you wish the wedding postponed until everything has been cleared up."

"It is not worth while to talk of postponement," said the Juryman. "I think that Gudmund's case is clear enough for us to decide that all is over between him and Hildur now."

Gudmund did not at once reply to this judgment. He walked over to his betrothed and put out his hand. She sat perfectly still and seemed not to see him. "Won't you say farewell to me, Hildur?"

Then she looked up, and her large eyes stared coldly at him. "Was it with that hand you guided the knife?" she asked.

Gudmund did not answer her, but turned to the Juryman. "Now I am sure of my case," he said. "It is useless to talk of a wedding."

With this the conference was ended, and Gudmund and Erland went their way.

They had to pass through a number of rooms and corridors before they came out, and everywhere they saw preparations for the wedding. The door leading to the kitchen was open, and they saw many bustling about in eager haste. The smell of roasts and of baking penetrated the air; the whole fireplace was covered with large and small pots and pans, and the copper saucepans, which usually decorated the walls, were down and in use. "Fancy, it is for my wedding that they are puttering like this!" thought Gudmund, as he was passing.

He caught a glimpse, so to speak, of all the wealth of this old peasant estate as he wandered through the house. He saw the dining-hall, where the long tables were set with a long row of silver goblets and decanters. He passed by the clothes-press, where the floor was covered with great chests and where the walls were hung with an endless array of wearing apparel. When he came out in the yard, he saw many vehicles, old and new, and fine horses being led out from the stable, and gorgeous carriage robes placed in the carriages. He looked out across a couple of farms with cow-sheds, barns, sheep-folds, storehouses, sheds, larders, and many other buildings. "All this might have been mine," he thought, as he seated himself in the cart.

Suddenly he was seized with a sense of bitter regret. He would have liked to throw himself out of the cart and go in and say that what he had told them was not true. He had only wished to joke with them and frighten them. It was awfully stupid of him to confess. Of what use had it been to him to confess? The dead was dead. No, this confession carried nothing with it save his ruin.

These last weeks he had not been very enthusiastic over this marriage. But now, when he must renounce it, he realized what it was worth to him. It meant much to lose Hildur Ericsdotter and all that went with her. What did it matter that she was domineering and opinionated? She was still the peer of all in these regions, and through her he would have come by great power and honor.

It was not only Hildur and her possessions he was missing, but minor things as well. At this moment he should have been driving to the church, and all who looked upon him would have envied him. And it was to-day that he should have sat at the head of the wedding table and been in the thick of the dancing and the gayety. It was his great luck-day that was going from him.

Erland turned time and again to his son and looked at him. Now he was not so handsome or transfigured as he had been in the morning, but sat there listless and heavy and dull-eyed. The father wondered if the son regretted having confessed and meant to question him about it, but thought it best to be silent.

"Where are we driving to now?" asked Gudmund presently. "Wouldn't it be as well to go at once to the sheriff?"

"You had better go home first and have a good sleep," said the father. "You have not had much sleep these last nights, I dare say."

"Mother will be frightened when she sees us."

"She won't be surprised," answered the father, "for she knows quite as much as I do. She will be glad, of course, that you have confessed."

"I believe mother and the rest of you at home are glad to get me into prison," snarled Gudmund.

"We know that you are losing a good deal in acting rightly," said the father. "We can't help but be glad because you have conquered yourself."

Gudmund felt that he could not endure going home and having to listen to all who would commend him because he had spoiled his future. He sought some excuse that he might escape meeting any one until he had recovered his poise. Then they drove by the place where the path led to Big Marsh. "Will you stop here, father? I think I'll run up to see Helga and have a talk with her."

Willingly the father reined in the horse. "Only come home as quickly as you can, that you may rest yourself," said he.

Gudmund went into the woods and was soon out of sight. He did not think of seeking Helga; he was only thinking of being alone, so that he wouldn't have to control himself. He felt an unreasonable anger toward everything, kicked at stones that lay in his path, and paused sometimes to break off a big branch only because a leaf had brushed his cheek.

He followed the path to Big Marsh, but walked past the croft and up the hill which lay above it. He had wandered off the path, and in order to reach the hill-top he must cross a broad ridge of sharp, jagged rocks. It was a hazardous tramp over the sharp rock edges. He might have broken both arms and legs had he made a misstep. He understood this perfectly, but went on as if it amused him to run into danger. "If I were to fall and hurt myself, no one can find me up here," thought he. "What of it? I may as well die here as to sit for years within prison walls."

All went well, however, and a few moments later he was up on High Peak. Once a forest fire had swept the mountain. The highest point was still bare, and from there one had a seven-mile outlook. He saw valleys and lakes, dark forest tracts and flourishing towns, churches and manors, little woodland crofts and large villages. Far in the distance lay the city, enveloped in a white haze from which a pair of gleaming spires peeped out. Public roads wound through the valleys, and a railway train was rushing along the border of the forest. It was a whole kingdom that he saw.

He flung himself upon the ground, all the while keeping his eyes riveted upon the vast outlook. There was something grand and majestic about the landscape before him, which made him feel himself and his sorrows small and insignificant.

He remembered how, when a child, he had read that the tempter led Jesus up to a high mountain and showed him all the world's glories, and he always fancied that they had stood up here on Great Peak, and he repeated the old words: "All these things will I give thee if thou wilt fall down and worship me."

All of a sudden he was thinking that a similar temptation had come to him these last days. Certainly the tempter had not borne him to a high mountain and shown him all the glories and powers of this world! "Only be silent about the evil which you think you have done," said he, "and I will give you all these things."

As Gudmund thought on this, a grain of satisfaction came to him. "I have answered no," he said, and suddenly he understood what it had meant for him. If he had kept silent, would he not have been compelled to worship the tempter all his life? He would have been a timid and faint-hearted man; simply a slave to his possessions. The fear of discovery would always have weighed upon him. Nevermore would he have felt himself a free man.

A great peace came over Gudmund. He was happy in the consciousness that he had done right. When he thought back to the past days, he felt that he had groped his way out of a great darkness. It was wonderful that he had come out right finally. He asked himself how he had ever happened to go astray. "It was because they were so kind to me at home," he thought, "and the best help was that Helga came and wished me happiness."

He lay up there on the mountain a little longer, but presently he felt that he must go home to his father and mother and tell them that he was at peace with himself. When he rose to go, he saw Helga sitting on a ledge a little farther down the mountain.

Where she sat, she had not the big, broad outlook which he enjoyed; only a little glint of the valley was visible to her. This was in the direction where Närlunda lay, and possibly she could see a portion of the farm. When Gudmund discovered her, he felt that his heart, which all the day before had labored heavily and anxiously, began to beat lightly and merrily; at the same time such a thrill of joy ran through him that he stood still and marvelled at himself. "What has come over me? What is this?" he wondered, as the blood surged through his body and happiness gripped him with a force that was almost painful. At last he said to himself in a surprised tone: "Why, it is she that I'm fond of! Think, that I did not know it until now!"

It took hold of him with the strength of a loosened torrent. He had been bound the whole time he knew her. All that had drawn him to her he had held back. Now, at last, he was freed from the thought of marrying some one else – free to love her.

"Helga!" he cried, rushing down the steep to her. She turned round with a terrified shriek. "Don't be frightened! It is only I."

"But are you not at church being married?"

"No, indeed! There will be no wedding to-day. She doesn't want me – she – Hildur."

Helga rose. She placed her hand on her heart and closed her eyes. At that moment she must have thought it was not Gudmund who had come. It must be that her eyes and ears were bewitched in the forest. Yet it was sweet and dear of him to come, if only in a vision! She closed her eyes and stood motionless to keep this vision a few seconds longer.

Gudmund was wild and dizzy from the great love that had flamed up in him. As soon as he came down to Helga, he threw his arms around her and kissed her, and she let it happen, for she was absolutely stupefied with surprise. It was too wonderful to believe that he, who should now be standing in church beside his bride, actually could have come here to the forest. This phantom or ghost of him that had come to her may as well kiss her.

But while Gudmund was kissing Helga, she awoke and pushed him from her. She began to shower him with questions. Was it really he? What was he doing in the forest? Had any misfortune happened to him? Why was the wedding postponed? Was Hildur ill? Did the clergyman have a stroke in church?

Gudmund had not wished to talk to her of anything in the world save his love, but she forced him to tell her what had occurred. While he was speaking she sat still and listened with rapt attention.

She did not interrupt him until he mentioned the broken blade. Then she leaped up suddenly and asked if it was his clasp-knife, the one he had when she served with them.

"Yes, it was just that one," said he.

"How many blades were broken off?" she asked.

"Only one," he answered.

Then Helga's head began working. She sat with knit brows trying to recall something. Wait! Why, certainly she remembered distinctly that she had borrowed the knife from him to shave wood with the day before she left. She had broken it then, but she had never told him of it. He had avoided her, and at that time he had not wished to hold any converse with her. And of course the knife had been in his pocket ever since and he hadn't noticed that it was broken.

She raised her head and was about to tell him of this, but he went on talking of his visit that morning to the house where the wedding was to have been celebrated, and she wanted to let him finish. When she heard how he had parted from Hildur, she thought it such a terrible misfortune that she began upbraiding him. "This is your own fault," said she. "You and your father came and frightened the life out of her with the shocking news. She would not have answered thus had she been mistress of herself. I want to say to you that I believe she regrets it at this very moment."

"Let her regret it as much as she likes, for all of me!" said Gudmund. "I know now that she is the sort who thinks only of herself. I am glad I'm rid of her!"

Helga pressed her lips, as if to keep the great secret from escaping. There was much for her to think about. It was more than a question of clearing Gudmund of the murder; the wretched affair had also dragged with it enmity between Gudmund and his sweetheart. Perhaps she might try to adjust this matter with the help of what she knew.

Again she sat silent and pondered until Gudmund began telling that he had transferred his affections to her.

But to her this seemed to be the greatest misfortune he had met with that day. It was bad that he was about to miss the advantageous marriage, but still worse were he to woo a girl like herself. "No, such things you must not say to me," she said, rising abruptly.

"Why shouldn't I say this to you?" asked Gudmund, turning pale. "Perhaps it is with you as with Hildur – you are afraid of me?"

"No, that's not the reason."

She wanted to explain how he was seeking his own ruin, but he was not listening to her. "I have heard said that there were women-folk in olden times who stood side by side with men when they were in trouble; but that kind one does not encounter nowadays."

A tremor passed through Helga. She could have thrown her arms around his neck, but remained perfectly still. To-day it was she who must be sensible.

"True, I should not have asked you to become my wife on the day that I must go to prison. You see, if I only knew that you would wait for me until I'm free again, I should go through all the hardship with courage. Every one will now regard me as a criminal, as one who drinks and murders. If only there were some one who could think of me with affection! – this would sustain me more than anything else."

"You know, surely, that I shall never think anything but good of you, Gudmund."

Helga was so still! Gudmund's entreaties were becoming almost too much for her. She didn't know how she should escape him. He apprehended nothing of this, but began thinking he had been mistaken. She could not feel toward him as he did toward her. He came very close and looked at her, as though he wanted to look through her. "Are you not sitting on this particular ledge of the mountain that you may look down to Närlunda?"

"Yes."

"Don't you long night and day to be there?"

"Yes, but I'm not longing for any person."

"And you don't care for me?"

"Yes, but I don't want to marry you."

"Whom do you care for, then?"

Helga was silent.

"Is it Per Mårtensson?"

"I have already told you that I liked him," she said, exhausted by the strain of it all.

Gudmund stood for a moment, with tense features, and looked at her. "Farewell, then! Now we must go our separate ways, you and I," said he. With that he made a long jump from this ledge of the mountain down to the next landing and disappeared among the trees.

VI

Gudmund was hardly out of sight when Helga rushed down the mountain in another direction. She ran past the marsh without stopping and hurried over the wooded hills as fast as she could and down the road. She stopped at the first farmhouse she came to and asked for the loan of a horse and car to drive to Älvåkra. She said that it was a matter of life and death and promised to pay for the help. The church folk had already returned to their homes and were talking of the adjourned wedding. They were all very much excited and very solicitous and were eager to help Helga, since she appeared to have an important errand to the home of the bride.

At Älvåkra Hildur Ericsdotter sat in a little room on the upper floor where she had dressed as a bride. Her mother and several other peasant women were with her. Hildur did not weep; she was unusually quiet, and so pale that she looked as though she might be ill at any moment. The women talked all the while of Gudmund. All blamed him and seemed to regard it as a fortunate thing that she was rid of him. Some thought that Gudmund had shown very little consideration for his parents-in-law in not letting them know on Palm Sunday how matters stood with him. Others, again, said that one who had had such happiness awaiting him should have known how to take better care of himself. A few congratulated Hildur because she had escaped marrying a man who could drink himself so full that he did not know what he was doing.

Amid this, Hildur was losing her patience and rose to go out. As soon as she was outside the door, her best friend, a young peasant girl, came and whispered something to her. "There is some one below who wants to speak with you."

"Is it Gudmund?" asked Hildur, and a spark of life came into her eyes.

"No, but it may be a messenger from him. She wouldn't divulge the nature of her errand to any one but yourself, she declared."