Ingmar no longer kept his eyes closed. He stood looking down at them, as if he were counting up all the years and all the trials through which they had lived, serving his people; and it seemed to him that his first duty was to see that they be allowed to live out their days in their old home. He glanced out over the yard, caught the eye of Strong Ingmar, and nodded to him, significantly.

Whereupon Strong Ingmar, without a word, went straight to the house. He pa.s.sed through the living-room to the inner room, and stationed himself by the door, where he waited for an opportunity to deliver his message.

The pastor was standing in the middle of the room talking to Karin and Halvor, who were sitting as stiff and motionless as a pair of mummies. The manager from Bergsna was at the table looking confident, for he knew that he was in a position to outbid all the others. The innkeeper from Karmsund was standing at the window, in such a fever of agitation that great beads of sweat came out on his forehead, and his hands shook. Berger Sven Persson sat on the sofa at the far end of the room, twiddling his thumbs, his hands clasped over his stomach, his big commanding face impa.s.sive.

The pastor was done talking, and Halvor glanced over at Karin for advice; but she sat as if in a trance, staring blankly at the floor.

Then Halvor turned to the pastor, and said: "Karin and I have got to consider that we are going to a strange land, and that we and the brethren must live on the money we can get for the farm. We've been told that the fare alone to Jerusalem will cost us fifteen thousand kroner. And then, afterward, we must get a house and keep ourselves in food and clothes. So we can hardly afford to give anything away."

"It's unreasonable of you people to expect Karin and Halvor to sell the farm for a mere song, just because you don't want the Company to have it!" said the manager. "It seems to me that it would be well to accept my offer at once, if for no other reason than to put an end to all these useless arguments."

"Yes," Karin spoke up, "we'd better take the highest bid."

But the parson was not so easily beaten! When it came to a question of handling a worldly matter he always knew just what to say. Now he was the man, and not the preacher.

"I'm sure that Karin and Halvor care enough about this old farm to want to sell to some person who would keep up the property, even if they have to take a couple of thousand kroner less," he said.

Then he proceeded to tell--for Karin's special benefit--of various farms that had gone to waste after falling into the hands of corporations.

Once or twice Karin glanced up at the pastor. He wondered whether he had finally succeeded in making some impression upon her. "There must surely be a little of the pride of the old peasant matron still left in her," he thought as he went on telling of tumbledown farmhouses and underfed cattle.

He finally ended with these words: "I know perfectly well that if the corporation is fully determined to buy the Ingmar Farm, it can go on bidding against the farmers until they are forced to give up; but if Karin and Halvor want to prevent this old place from becoming a ruined corporation property, they will have to settle on a price, so that the farmers may know what to be guided by."

When the pastor made that proposition, Halvor, uneasy, glanced over at Karin, who slowly raised her eyelids.

"Certainly Halvor and I would rather sell the place to some one of our own kind. Then we could go away from here knowing that everything would continue in the old way."

"If some person outside the Company wants to give forty thousand for the property, we will be satisfied to accept that sum for it,"

said Halvor, knowing at last what his wife's wishes were.

When that was said, Strong Ingmar walked over to Sven Persson and whispered to him.

Judge Persson immediately arose and went up to Halvor. "Since you say you are willing to take forty thousand kroner for the farm, I'll buy it at that figure," he said.

Halvor's face began to twitch, and a lump seemed to rise in his throat; he had to swallow before he could speak. "Thank you, judge," he finally stammered. "I'm glad that I can leave the farm in such good hands!"

Judge Persson then shook hands with Karin, who was so moved that she could hardly keep back the tears.

"You may be sure, Karin, that everything here will be as of old,"

he said.

"Are you going to live at the farm yourself?" Karin inquired.

"No," said he, then added with great solemnity: "My youngest daughter is to be married in the summer, and she and her husband are to have the farm as a gift from me." He then turned to the pastor and thanked him.

"Well, Parson, you'll have it your own way," he said. "I never dreamed in the days when I was a poor goose boy on this place that some time it would be in my power to arrange for an Ingmar Ingmarsson to come back to the Ingmar Farm!"

The pastor and the other men all stood staring at the judge in dumb amazement, not grasping at first what was meant.

Karin left the room at once. While pa.s.sing through the living-room to the yard, she drew herself up, retied her headkerchief, and smoothed out her ap.r.o.n. Then, with an air of solemn dignity, she went straight up to Ingmar and grasped his hand.

"Let me congratulate you, Ingmar," she said, her voice shaking with joy. "You and I have been strongly opposed to each other of late in matters of religion; but since G.o.d does not grant me the solace of having you with us, I thank Him for allowing you to become master of the old farm."

Ingmar did not speak. His hand lay limp in Karin's, and when she let it drop, he stood there looking just as unhappy as he had looked all day.

The men who had been inside at the final settlement came out now, and shook hands with Ingmar, offering their congratulations. "Good luck to you, Ingmar Ingmarsson of the Ingmar Farm!" they said.

At that a glimmer of happiness crossed Ingmar's face, and he murmured softly to himself: "Ingmar Ingmarsson of the Ingmar Farm."

He was like a child that has just received a gift it has long been wishing for. But the next moment his expression changed to one of intense revolt and repugnance, as if he would have thrust the coveted prize from him.

In a flash the news had spread .all over the farm. People talked loudly and questioned eagerly; some were so pleased they wept for joy. No one listened now to the cries of the auctioneer, but everybody crowded around Ingmar to wish him happiness--peasants and gentlefolk, friends and strangers, alike.

Ingmar, standing there, surrounded by all these happy people, suddenly looked up. He then saw Mother Stina, standing a little apart from the others, her eyes fixed on him. She was very pale, and looked old and poor. As he met her gaze, she turned and walked away.

Ingmar hastily left the others and hurried after her. Then bending down to her, every muscle of his face aquiver with grief, he said in a husky voice:

"Go home to Gertrude, Mother Stina, and tell her that I have betrayed her, that I've sold myself for the farm. Tell her never to think more of such a miserable wretch as I."

GERTRUDE

Something strange had come over Gertrude that she could neither stay nor control--something that grew and grew until it finally threatened to take complete possession of her.

It began at the moment when she learned that Ingmar had failed her.

It was really a boundless fear of seeing Ingmar again--of suddenly meeting him on the road, or at church, or elsewhere. Why that would be such a terrible thing she hardly knew, but she felt that she could never endure it.

Gertrude would have preferred shutting herself in, day and night, so as to be sure of not meeting Ingmar; but that was not possible for a poor girl like her. She had to go out and work in the garden, and every morning and evening she was obliged to tramp the long distance from the house to the pasture to milk the cows, and she was often sent to the village store to buy sugar and meal and whatever else was needed in the house.

When Gertrude went out on the road she would always draw her kerchief far down over her face, keep her eyes lowered, and rush on as if fiends were pursuing her. As soon as she could, she would turn from the highroad, and take the narrow bypaths alongside the ditches and drains, where she felt there was less likelihood of her meeting Ingmar.

Never for a moment did she feel free from fear; for there was not a single place in all the parish where she could feel certain of not running across him. If she went rowing on the river, he might be there floating his timber, or if she ventured into the depths of the forest, he might cross her path on his way to work.

When weeding in the garden, she would often glance down the road, so that she might see if he were approaching, and make her escape.

Ingmar was so well known about the place that her dog would not have barked at sight of him, and her pigeons, that strutted about the gravel walk, would not have flown up and warned her of his approach with the rustle of their flapping wings.

Gertrude's haunting dread did not diminish, but rather increased from day to day. All her grief had turned to fear, and her strength to combat it grew less and less. "Soon I shall not dare venture outside the door," she thought. "I may get to be a bit queer and morose, even if I don't become quite insane. G.o.d, G.o.d, take this awful fear away from me!" she prayed. "I can see that my mother and father think I'm not right in my head; and every one else must think the same. Oh, dear Lord G.o.d, help me!" she cried.

When this fear condition was at its worst, it happened one night that Gertrude had an extraordinary dream. She dreamed that she had gone out, with her milk pail on her arm, to do the milking. The cows were grazing in an enclosed meadow near the skirt of the forest, a long way from home. She went by the narrow paths, alongside the ditches and field drains. She had great difficulty in walking, for she felt so weak and weary that she could hardly lift her feet. "What can be the matter with me?" she asked herself, in the dream. "Why is it so hard for me to walk?" And she also answered herself. "You are tired because you carry about with you this heavy burden of sorrow."

When she finally got to the pasturage, there were no cows in sight.

She became uneasy, and began to look for them in their usual haunts--behind the brushwood, over by the brook, and under the birches--but there was not a sign of them. While searching for the cows she discovered a gap in the hedge, on the side fronting the forest. She grew terribly alarmed, and stood wringing her hands. It suddenly occurred to her that the cows must have cleared this opening. "Tired as I am, must I now tramp the whole forest to find them!" she whimpered, in her dream.

But she went straight on into the woods, slowly pushing her way through fir brush and p.r.i.c.kly juniper bushes. Presently she found herself walking on a smooth and even road without knowing how she had got there. The road was soft and rather slippery from the brown fir needles that covered it. On either side stood great towering pines, and on the yellow moss under the trees sunbeams were playing. Here it was so lovely and so peaceful that she almost forgot her fears.

Of a sudden, she caught sight of an old woman moving about in among the trees. It was Finne-Marit, she who was famed as a witch.

"How dreadful that that wicked old woman is still alive," thought Gertrude, "and that I should come upon her here in the forest!" She tried to slip along very cautiously, so as not to be seen by the witch. But before Gertrude could get past, the old woman looked up.

"Hi, there!" the old woman shouted. "Wait a bit, and you'll see something!" In a twinkling, Finne-Marit was in the road and on her knees almost in front of Gertrude. Then, with her forefinger, she drew a circle in the carpet of fir needles, at the centre of which she placed a shallow bra.s.s bowl.