From a Swedish Homestead

'So it is you, my child, who have been buried,' said her ladyship, nodding friendlily to her. 'Do you mind telling me your story, my child? I sit here quite alone, and never hear anything, you know.'

Then Ingrid began again to tell her story. But she had not got very far before she was interrupted. Her ladyship did exactly the same as Miss Stafva had done. She rose, pushed the handkerchief back from Ingrid's forehead and looked into her eyes.

'Yes,' her ladyship said to herself, 'that I can understand. I can understand that he must obey those eyes.'

For the first time in her life Ingrid was praised for her courage. Her ladyship thought she had been very brave to place herself in the hands of a crazy fellow.

She was afraid, she said, but she was still more afraid of people seeing her in that state. And he did no harm; he was almost quite right, and then he was so good.

Her ladyship wanted to know his name, but Ingrid did not know it. She had never heard of any other name but the Goat. Her ladyship asked several times how he managed when he came to do business. Had she not laughed at him, and did she not think that he looked terrible – the Goat? It sounded so strange when her ladyship said 'the Goat.' There was so much bitterness in her voice when she said it, and yet she said it over and over again.

No; Ingrid did not think so, and she never laughed at unfortunate people. The old lady looked more gentle than her words sounded.

'It appears you know how to manage mad people, my child,' she said. 'That is a great gift. Most people are afraid of such poor creatures.' She listened to all Ingrid had to say, and sat meditating. 'As you have not any home, my child,' she said, 'will you not stay here with me? You see, I am an old woman living here by myself, and you can keep me company, and I shall take care that you have everything you want. What do you say to it, my child? There will come a time, I suppose,' continued her ladyship, 'when we shall have to inform your parents that you are still living; but for the present everything shall remain as it is, so that you can have time to rest both body and mind. And you shall call me "Aunt"; but what shall I call you?'

'Ingrid – Ingrid Berg.'

'Ingrid,' said her ladyship thoughtfully. 'I would rather have called you something else. As soon as you entered the room with those star-like eyes, I thought you ought to be called Mignon.'

When it dawned upon the young girl that here she would really find a home, she felt more sure than ever that she had been brought here in some supernatural manner, and she whispered her thanks to her invisible protector before she thanked her ladyship, Miss Stafva, and Anna Stina.

Ingrid slept in a four-poster, on luxurious featherbeds three feet high, and had hem-stitched sheets, and silken quilts embroidered with Swedish crowns and French lilies. The bed was so broad that she could lie as she liked either way, and so high that she must mount two steps to get into it. At the top sat a Cupid holding the brightly-coloured hangings, and on the posts sat other Cupids, which held them up in festoons.

In the same room where the bed stood was an old curved chest of drawers inlaid with olive-wood, and from it Ingrid might take as much sweetly-scented linen as she liked. There was also a wardrobe containing many gay and pretty silk and muslin gowns that only hung there and waited until it pleased her to put them on.

When she awoke in the morning there stood by her bedside a tray with a silver coffee-set and old Indian china. And every morning she set her small white teeth in fine white bread and delicious almond-cakes; every day she was dressed in a fine muslin gown with a lace fichu. Her hair was dressed high at the back, but round her forehead there was a row of little light curls.

On the wall between the windows hung a mirror, with a narrow glass in a broad frame, where she could see herself, and nod to her picture, and ask:

'Is it you? Is it really you? How have you come here?'

In the daytime, when Ingrid had left the chamber with the four-poster, she sat in the drawing-room and embroidered or painted on silk, and when she was tired of that, she played a little on the guitar and sang, or talked with the old lady, who taught her French, and amused herself by training her to be a fine lady.

But she had come to an enchanted castle – she could not get away from that idea. She had had that feeling the first moment, and it was always coming back again. No one arrived at the house, no one left it. In this big house only two or three rooms were kept in order; in the others no one ever went. No one walked in the garden, no one looked after it. There was only one man-servant, and an old man who cut the firewood. And Miss Stafva had only two servants, who helped her in the kitchen and in the dairy.

But there was always dainty food on the table, and her ladyship and Ingrid were always waited upon and dressed like fine ladies of rank.

If nothing thrived on the old estate, there was, at any rate, fertile soil for dreams, and even if they did not nurse and cultivate flowers there, Ingrid was not the one to neglect her dream-roses. They grew up around her whenever she was alone. It seemed to her then as if red dream-roses formed a canopy over her.

Round the island where the trees bent low over the water, and sent long branches in between the reeds, and where shrubs and lofty trees grew luxuriantly, was a pathway where Ingrid often walked. It looked so strange to see so many letters carved on the trees, to see the old seats and summer-houses; to see the old tumble-down pavilions, which were so worm-eaten that she dared not go into them; to think that real people had walked here, that here they had lived, and longed, and loved, and that this had not always been an enchanted castle.

Down here she felt even more the witchery of the place. Here the face with the smile came to her. Here she could thank him, the student, because he had brought her to a home where she was so happy, where they loved her, and made her forget how hardly others had treated her. If it had not been he who had arranged all this for her, she could not possibly have been allowed to remain here; it was quite impossible.

She knew that it must be he. She had never before had such wild fancies. She had always been thinking of him, but she had never felt that he was so near her that he took care of her. The only thing she longed for was that he himself should come, for of course he would come some day. It was impossible that he should not come. In these avenues he had left behind part of his soul.

Summer went, and autumn; Christmas was drawing near.

'Miss Ingrid,' said the old housekeeper one day, in a rather mysterious manner, 'I think I ought to tell you that the young master who owns Munkhyttan is coming home for Christmas. In any case, he generally comes,' she added, with a sigh.

'And her ladyship, who has never even mentioned that she has a son,' said Ingrid.

But she was not really surprised. She might just as well have answered that she had known it all along.

'No one has spoken to you about him, Miss Ingrid,' said the housekeeper, 'for her ladyship has forbidden us to speak about him.'

And then Miss Stafva would not say any more.

Neither did Ingrid want to ask any more. Now she was afraid of hearing something definite. She had raised her expectations so high that she was herself afraid they would fail. The truth might be well worth hearing, but it might also be bitter, and destroy all her beautiful dreams. But from that day he was with her night and day. She had hardly time to speak to others. She must always be with him.

One day she saw that they had cleared the snow away from the avenue. She grew almost frightened. Was he coming now?

The next day her ladyship sat from early morning in the window looking down the avenue. Ingrid had gone further into the room. She was so restless that she could not remain at the window.

'Do you know whom I am expecting to-day, Ingrid?'

The young girl nodded; she dared not depend upon her voice to answer.

'Has Miss Stafva told you that my son is peculiar?'

Ingrid shook her head.

'He is very peculiar – he – I cannot speak about it. I cannot – you must see for yourself.'

It sounded heartrending. Ingrid grew very uneasy. What was there with this house that made everything so strange? Was it something terrible that she did not know about? Was her ladyship not on good terms with her son? What was it, what was it?

The one moment in an ecstasy of joy, the next in a fever of uncertainty, she was obliged to call forth the long row of visions in order again to feel that it must be he who came. She could not at all say why she so firmly believed that he must be the son just of this house. He might, for the matter of that, be quite another person. Oh, how hard it was that she had never heard his name!

It was a long day. They sat waiting in silence until evening came.

The man came driving a cartload of Christmas logs, and the horse remained in the yard whilst the wood was unloaded.

'Ingrid,' said her ladyship in a commanding and hasty tone, 'run down to Anders and tell him that he must be quick and get the horse into the stable. Quick – quick!'

Ingrid ran down the stairs and on to the veranda; but when she came out she forgot to call to the man. Just behind the cart she saw a tall man in a sheepskin coat, and with a large pack on his back. It was not necessary for her to see him standing curtsying and curtsying to recognise him. But, but – She put her hand to her head and drew a deep breath. How would all these things ever become clear to her? Was it for that fellow's sake her ladyship had sent her down? And the man, why did he pull the horse away in such great haste? And why did he take off his cap and salute? What had that crazy man to do with the people of this house?

All at once the truth flashed upon Ingrid so crushingly and overwhelmingly that she could have screamed. It was not her beloved who had watched over her; it was this crazy man. She had been allowed to remain here because she had spoken kindly of him, because his mother wanted to carry on the good work which he had commenced.

The Goat – that was the young master.

But to her no one came. No one had brought her here; no one had expected her. It was all dreams, fancies, illusions! Oh, how hard it was! If she had only never expected him!

But at night, when Ingrid lay in the big bed with the brightly-coloured hangings, she dreamt over and over again that she saw the student come home. 'It was not you who came,' she said. 'Yes, of course it was I,' he replied. And in her dreams she believed him.

One day, the week after Christmas, Ingrid sat at the window in the boudoir embroidering. Her ladyship sat on the sofa knitting, as she always did now. There was silence in the room.

Young Hede had been at home for a week. During all that time Ingrid had never seen him. In his home, too, he lived like a peasant, slept in the men-servants' quarters, and had his meals in the kitchen. He never went to see his mother.

Ingrid knew that both her ladyship and Miss Stafva expected that she should do something for Hede, that at the least she would try and persuade him to remain at home. And it grieved her that it was impossible for her to do what they wished. She was in despair about herself and about the utter weakness that had come over her since her expectations had been so shattered.

To-day Miss Stafva had just come in to say that Hede was getting his pack ready to start. He was not even staying as long as he generally did at Christmas, she said with a reproachful look at Ingrid.

Ingrid understood all they had expected from her, but she could do nothing. She sewed and sewed without saying anything.

Miss Stafva went away, and there was again silence in the room. Ingrid quite forgot that she was not alone; a feeling of drowsiness suddenly came over her, whilst all her sad thoughts wove themselves into a strange fancy.

She thought she was walking up and down the whole of the large house. She went through a number of rooms and salons; she saw them before her with gray covers over the furniture. The paintings and the chandeliers were covered with gauze, and on the floors was a layer of thick dust, which whirled about when she went through the rooms. But at last she came to a room where she had never been before; it was quite a small chamber, where both walls and ceiling were black. But when she came to look more closely at them, she saw that the chamber was neither painted black, nor covered with black material, but it was so dark on account of the walls and the ceiling being completely covered with bats. The whole room was nothing but a huge nest for bats. In one of the windows a pane was broken, so one could understand how the bats had got in in such incredible numbers that they covered the whole room. They hung there in their undisturbed winter sleep; not one moved when she entered. But she was seized by such terror at this sight that she began to shiver and shake all over. It was dreadful to see the quantity of bats she so distinctly saw hanging there. They all had black wings wrapped around them like cloaks; they all hung from the walls by a single long claw in undisturbable sleep. She saw it all so distinctly that she wondered if Miss Stafva knew that the bats had taken possession of a whole room. In her thoughts she then went to Miss Stafva and asked her whether she had been into that room and seen all the bats.

'Of course I have seen them,' said Miss Stafva. 'It is their own room. I suppose you know, Miss Ingrid, that there is not a single old country house in all Sweden where they have not to give up a room to the bats?'

'I have never heard that before,' Ingrid said.

'When you have lived as long in the world as I have, Miss Ingrid, you will find out that I am speaking the truth,' said Miss Stafva.

'I cannot understand that people will put up with such a thing,' Ingrid said.

'We are obliged to,' said Miss Stafva. 'Those bats are Mistress Sorrow's birds, and she has commanded us to receive them.'

Ingrid saw that Miss Stafva did not wish to say anything more about that matter, and she began to sew again; but she could not help speculating over who that Mistress Sorrow could be who had so much power here that she could compel Miss Stafva to give up a whole room to the bats.

Just as she was thinking about all this, she saw a black sledge, drawn by black horses, pull up outside the veranda. She saw Miss Stafva come out and make a low curtsy. An old lady in a long black velvet cloak, with many small capes on the shoulders, alighted from the sledge. She was bent, and had difficulty in walking. She could hardly lift her feet sufficiently to walk up the steps.

'Ingrid,' said her ladyship, looking up from her knitting, 'I think I heard Mistress Sorrow arrive. It must have been her jingle I heard. Have you noticed that she never has sledge-bells on her horses, but only quite a small jingle? But one can hear it – one can hear it! Go down into the hall, Ingrid, and bid Mistress Sorrow welcome.'

When Ingrid came down into the front hall, Mistress Sorrow stood talking with Miss Stafva on the veranda. They did not notice her.

Ingrid saw with surprise that the round-backed old lady had something hidden under all her capes which looked like crape; it was put well up and carefully hidden. Ingrid had to look very closely before she discovered that they were two large bat's wings which she tried to hide. The young girl grew still more curious and tried to see her face, but she stood and looked into the yard, so it was impossible. So much, however, Ingrid did see when she put out her hand to the housekeeper – that one of her fingers was much longer than the others, and at the end of it was a large, crooked claw.

'I suppose everything is as usual here?' she said.

'Yes, honoured Mistress Sorrow,' said Miss Stafva.

'You have not planted any flowers, nor pruned any trees? You have not mended the bridge, nor weeded the avenue?'

'No, honoured mistress.'

'This is quite as it should be,' said the honoured mistress. 'I suppose you have not had the audacity to search for the vein of ore, or to cut down the forest which is encroaching on the fields?'

'No, honoured mistress.'

'Or to clean the wells?'

'No, nor to clean the wells.'

'This is a nice place,' said Mistress Sorrow; 'I always like being here. In a few years things will be in such a state that my birds can live all over the house. You are really very good to my birds, Miss Stafva.'

At this praise the housekeeper made a deep curtsy.

'How are things otherwise at the house?' said Mistress Sorrow. 'What sort of a Christmas have you had?'

'We have kept Christmas as we always do,' said Miss Stafva. 'Her ladyship sits knitting in her room day after day, thinks of nothing but her son, and does not even know that it is a festival. Christmas Eve we allowed to pass like any other day – no presents and no candles.'

'No Christmas tree, no Christmas fare?'

'Nor any going to church; not so much as a candle in the windows on Christmas morning.'

'Why should her ladyship honour God's Son when God will not heal her son?' said Mistress Sorrow.

'No, why should she?'

'He is at home at present, I suppose? Perhaps he is better now?'

'No, he is no better. He is as much afraid of things as ever.'

'Does he still behave like a peasant? Does he never go into the rooms?'

'We cannot get him to go into the rooms; he is afraid of her ladyship, as the honoured mistress knows.'

'He has his meals in the kitchen, and sleeps in the men-servants' room?'

'Yes, he does.'

'And you have no idea how to cure him?'

'We know nothing, we understand nothing.'

Mistress Sorrow was silent for a moment; when she spoke again there was a hard, sharp ring in her voice:

'This is all right as far as it goes, Miss Stafva; but I am not quite satisfied with you, all the same.'

The same moment she turned round and looked sharply at Ingrid.

Ingrid shuddered. Mistress Sorrow had a little, wrinkled face, the under part of which was so doubled up that one could hardly see the lower jaw. She had teeth like a saw, and thick hair on the upper lip. Her eyebrows were one single tuft of hair, and her skin was quite brown.

Ingrid thought Miss Stafva could not see what she saw: Mistress Sorrow was not a human being; she was only an animal.

Mistress Sorrow opened her mouth and showed her glittering teeth when she looked at Ingrid.

'When this girl came here,' she said to Miss Stafva, 'you thought she had been sent by God. You thought you could see from her eyes that she had been sent by Our Lord to save him. She knew how to manage mad people. Well, how has it worked?'

'It has not worked at all. She has not done anything.'

'No, I have seen to that,' said Mistress Sorrow. 'It was my doing that you did not tell her why she was allowed to stay here. Had she known that, she would not have indulged in such rosy dreams about seeing her beloved. If she had not had such expectations, she would not have had such a bitter disappointment. Had disappointment not paralyzed her, she could perhaps have done something for this mad fellow. But now she has not even been to see him. She hates him because he is not the one she expected him to be. That is my doing, Miss Stafva, my doing.'

'Yes; the honoured mistress knows her business,' said Miss Stafva.

Mistress Sorrow took her lace handkerchief and dried her red-rimmed eyes. It looked as if it were meant for an expression of joy.

'You need not make yourself out to be any better than you are, Miss Stafva,' she said. 'I know you do not like my having taken that room for my birds. You do not like the thought of my having the whole house soon. I know that. You and your mistress had intended to cheat me. But it is all over now.'

'Yes,' said Miss Stafva, 'the honoured mistress can be quite easy. It is all over. The young master is leaving to-day. He has packed up his pack, and then we always know he is about to leave. Everything her ladyship and I have been dreaming about the whole autumn is over. Nothing has been done. We thought she might at least have persuaded him to remain at home, but in spite of all we have done for her, she has not done anything for us.'

'No, she has only been a poor help, I know that,' said Mistress Sorrow. 'But, all the same, she must be sent away now. That was really what I wanted to see her ladyship about.'

Mistress Sorrow began to drag herself up the steps on her tottering legs. At every step she raised her wings a little, as if they should help her. She would, no doubt, much rather have flown.

Ingrid went behind her. She felt strangely attracted and fascinated. If Mistress Sorrow had been the most beautiful woman in the world, she could not have felt a greater inclination to follow her.

When she went into the boudoir she saw Mistress Sorrow sitting on the sofa by the side of her ladyship, whispering confidentially with her, as if they were old friends.

'You must be able to see that you cannot keep her with you,' said Mistress Sorrow impressively. 'You, who cannot bear to see a flower growing in your garden, can surely not stand having a young girl about in the house. It always brings a certain amount of brightness and life, and that would not suit you.'

'No; that is just what I have been sitting and thinking about.'

'Get her a situation as lady's companion somewhere or other, but don't keep her here.'

She rose to say good-bye.

'That was all I wanted to see you about,' she said. 'But how are you yourself?'

'Knives and scissors cut my heart all day long,' said her ladyship. 'I only live in him as long as he is at home. It is worse than usual, much worse this time. I cannot bear it much longer.'..

Ingrid started; it was her ladyship's bell that rang. She had been dreaming so vividly that she was quite surprised to see that her ladyship was alone, and that the black sledge was not waiting before the door.

Her ladyship had rung for Miss Stafva, but she did not come. She asked Ingrid to go down to her room and call her.

Ingrid went, but the little blue-checked room was empty. The young girl was going into the kitchen to ask for the housekeeper, but before she had time to open the door she heard Hede talking. She stopped outside; she could not persuade herself to go in and see him.

She tried, however, to argue with herself. It was not his fault that he was not the one she had been expecting. She must try to do something for him; she must persuade him to remain at home. Before, she had not had such a feeling against him. He was not so very bad.

She bent down and peeped through the keyhole. It was the same here as at other places. The servants tried to lead him on in order to amuse themselves by his strange talk. They asked him whom he was going to marry. Hede smiled; he liked to be asked about that kind of thing.

'She is called Grave-Lily – don't you know that?' he said.

The servant said she did not know that she had such a fine name.

'But where does she live?'

'Neither has she home nor has she farm,' Hede said. 'She lives in my pack.'

The servant said that was a queer home, and asked about her parents.

'Neither has she father nor has she mother,' Hede said. 'She is as fine as a flower; she has grown up in a garden.'

He said all this with a certain amount of clearness, but when he wanted to describe how beautiful his sweetheart was he could not get on at all. He said a number of words, but they were strangely mixed together. One could not follow his thoughts, but evidently he himself derived much pleasure from what he said. He sat smiling and happy.

Ingrid hurried away. She could not bear it any longer. She could not do anything for him. She was afraid of him. She disliked him. But she had not got further than the stairs before her conscience pricked her. Here she had received so much kindness, and she would not make any return.

In order to master her dislike she tried in her own mind to think of Hede as a gentleman. She wondered how he had looked when he wore good clothes, and had his hair brushed back. She closed her eyes for a moment and thought. No, it was impossible, she could not imagine him as being any different from what he was. The same moment she saw the outlines of a beloved face by her side. It appeared at her left side wonderfully distinct. This time the face did not smile. The lips trembled as if in pain, and unspeakable suffering was written in sharp lines round the mouth.