Jerusalem (Historical Novel). Selma Lagerlöf

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      "I came mighty near not coming at all."

      "But Ingmar! do you suppose I could have written love letters to you after all I had done! My last day in prison I wrote to you because the chaplain said I must. When I gave him the letter, he promised not to send it until I was well on my way."

      Ingmar took her hand and flattened it against the earth, then slapped it.

      "I could beat you!" he said.

      "You may do with me what you will, Ingmar."

      He looked up into her face, upon which suffering had wrought a new kind of beauty. "And I came so near letting you go!" he sighed.

      "You just had to come, I suppose."

      "Let me tell you that I didn't care for you."

      "I don't wonder at that."

      "I felt relieved when I heard that you were to be sent to America."

      "Yes, father wrote me that you were pleased."

      "Whenever I looked at mother, I felt somehow that I couldn't ask her to accept a daughter-in-law like you."

      "No, it would never do, Ingmar."

      "I've had to put up with a lot on your account; no one would notice me because of my treatment of you."

      "Now you are doing what you threatened to do," said Brita. "You're striking me."

      "I can't begin to tell you how mad I am at you."

      She kept still.

      "When I think of all I've had to stand these last few weeks—" he went on.

      "But Ingmar—"

      "Oh, I'm not angry about that, but at the thought of how near I came to letting you go!"

      "Didn't you love me, Ingmar?"

      "No, indeed."

      "Not during the whole journey home?"

      "No, not for a second! I was just put out with you."

      "When did you change?"

      "When I got your letter."

      "I saw that your love was over; that was why I did not want you to know that mine was but just beginning."

      Ingmar chuckled.

      "What amuses you, Ingmar?"

      "I'm thinking of how we sneaked out of church, and of the kind of welcome we got at the Ingmar Farm."

      "And you can laugh at that?"

      "Why not as well laugh? I suppose we'll have to take to the road, like tramps. Wonder what father would say to that?"

      "You may laugh, Ingmar, but this can't be; it can't be."

      "I think it can, for now I don't care a damn about anything or anybody but you!"

      Brita was ready to cry, but he just made her tell him again and again how often she had thought of him, and how much she had longed for him. Little by little he became as quiet as a child listening to a lullaby. It was all so different from what Brita had expected. She had thought of talking to him about her crime, if he came for her, and the weight of it. She would have liked to tell either him or her mother, or whoever had come for her, how unworthy she was of them. But not a word of this had she been allowed to speak.

      Presently he said very gently:

      "There is something you want to tell me?"

      "Yes."

      "And you are thinking about it all the time?"

      "Day and night!"

      "And it gets sort of mixed in with everything?"

      "That's true."

      "Now tell me about it, so there will be two instead of one to bear it."

      He sat looking into her eyes; they were like the eyes of a poor, hunted fawn. But as she spoke they became calmer.

      "Now you feel better," he said when she had finished.

      "I feel as if a great weight had been lifted from my heart."

      "That is because we are two to bear it. Now, perhaps, you won't want to go away."

      "Indeed I should love to stay!" she said.

      "Then let us go home," said Ingmar, rising.

      "No, I'm afraid!"

      "Mother is not so terrible," lie laughed, "when she sees that one has a mind of one's own."

      "No, Ingmar, I could never turn her out of her home. I have no choice but to go to America."

      "I'm going to tell you something," said Ingmar, with a mysterious smile. "You needn't be the least bit afraid, for there is some one who will help us."

      "Who is it?"

      "It's father. He'll see to it that everything comes out right."

      There was some one coming along the forest road. It was Kaisa. But as she was not bearing the familiar yoke, with the baskets, they hardly knew her at first.

      "Good-day to you!" greeted Ingmar and Brita, and the old woman came up and shook hands with them.

      "Well, I declare, here you sit, and all the folks from the farm out looking for you! You were in such a hurry to get out of church," the old woman went on, "that I never got to meet you at all. So I went down to the farm to pay my respects to Brita. When I got there who should I see but the Dean, and he was in the house calling Mother Martha at the top of his lungs before I even had a chance to say 'how d'ye do.' And before he had so much as shaken hands with her, he was crying out: 'Now, Mother Martha, you can be proud of Ingmar! It's plain now that he belongs to the old stock; so we must begin to call him Big Ingmar.'

      "Mother Martha, as you know, never says very much; she just stood there tying knots in her shawl. 'What's this you're telling me?' she said finally. 'He has brought Brita home,' the Dean explained, 'and, believe me, Mother Martha, he will be honoured and respected for it as long as he lives.' 'You don't tell me,' said the old lady. 'I could hardly go on with the service when I saw them sitting in church; it was a better sermon than any I could ever preach. Ingmar will be a credit to us all, as his father before him was.' 'The Dean brings us great news,' said Mother Martha. 'Isn't he home yet?" asked the Dean. 'No, he is not at home; but they may have stopped at Bergskog first.'"

      "Did mother really say that?" cried Ingmar.

      "Why, of course she did; and while we sat waiting for you to appear, she sent out one messenger after the other to look for you."

      Kaisa kept up a steady stream of talk, but Ingmar no longer heard what СКАЧАТЬ