The Vicarage
It was an evening in November, when the days were short and the nights seemed as if they would never end.
All the district round about the vicarage at Algeröd was quiet and still as in the vicarage itself. The horses had come in from the fields and were stabled, the cows had been milked, and the fowls had gone to their roost.
In the brewhouse, or, rather, in the little room beside it, sat Lotta Hedman that still evening, busy with her calculations. She had the Bible before her, and pen and ink and paper, and was searching earnestly in her dear Book of Revelation.
In the kitchen, in the main building, the fire had gone out, and cook and housemaid sat at the sewing-machine trying to reshape a blouse that the seamstress had somehow mismanaged; the man was in an adjoining room, stretched on a bench, waiting for supper-time to come.
The priest was sitting in his study, but not at his writing-table. He sat in a rocking-chair in one corner of the room. A lamp was close by, and he was reading the paper. When he raised his eyes, he could see into the next room, where his wife was sitting on a low stool by the stove. She sat with her chin in her hands staring into the fire.
Close beside her sat the Bailie, who was staying at the vicarage by arrangement. He was in poor health, and the Rhånges had been glad to take him in, since the sum he paid for his keep was a welcome aid to their scanty resources now they had moved to this poor living up in the waste lands. He was a man of about fifty, who had never done anything but please himself all his life, until at last his affairs had been taken out of his hands, and he himself had been sent up to a place where he would have no opportunity of wasting the little that remained to him of money and health.
The Bailie showed traces of a stroke he had had some time before: one side of his face was drawn awry, and the left eyelid hung down and could hardly be opened, but, for all that, he was a fine-looking man, of good bearing. He was a man of the world, had travelled much, and was intelligent and interesting to talk to.
He had drawn up a chair near the fire, and was telling Sigrun about foreign lands, that she had never seen and never would see, now that she sat buried here in a little parsonage in Sweden.
Sigrun was busy with her own thoughts and her restless desires, and let his words pass idly by. She she could have listened to what he was saying; it would have perhaps dispelled her weariness and longing if she could. But it was beyond her power.
Every now and then the Pastor raised his head and looked in to them from the room where he sat. And, listening, he could hear that they were talking of great cities in the lands where now the war raged at its worst. And it seemed to him very foolish of Sigrun to sit listening to all that idle chatter.
Out in the brewhouse where Lotta Hedman sat, the milkmaid had just finished rinsing her pail with hot water, and, seeing that the work was ended and the room would not be in use any more that day, Lotta moved in there with her table, her lamp, and her Bible. She drew a pair of pink stuff curtains across, in front of the great bricked-in cauldrons, hiding all the smoky black corner and making the place look more like a living-room.
She had a comfortable wicker chair to sit in, and brought out another now from the room adjoining, placing it by the table. For it was Sigrun’s custom to come out and talk to Lotta for a while during the long evenings. Now and again the Bailie would come out and sit for a long time, coaxing Lotta to talk of Sigrun, and sometimes the Pastor himself would come and tease her by asking if she had yet discovered the mystery of the seven seals and the glorious millennium.
Lotta Hedman had been asked to stay at the vicarage and help with odd work, looking after the fowls and such-like, on condition that she could be content with a room in the brewhouse. She had accepted the offer with joy. Sigrun had herself put up wall paper and curtains in the little room at the side, and given her really beautiful things to furnish it with. Lotta had had her belongings sent down from Stenbroträsk, managed her own housekeeping independently of the rest of the household, and in the evenings she had the two rooms entirely to herself. It was quite like having a real drawing-room of her own.
About the same time as Lotta moved into the scullery, the lad in the men’s room went into the kitchen to find someone to talk to. The milkmaid was there as well. And now all began talking about their master and mistress, and wondering if the Pastor had not yet found out that the Bailie was in love with his wife.
“He was so jealous about her before, they say,” said the milkmaid, “that he moved up here on purpose, to be somewhere where she wouldn’t be likely to see anyone but him. But he doesn’t seem to mind about this Bailie man.”
“Thinks it’s not worth worrying about, I dare say,” said the lad. “An old man like that, and half dead with the stroke already.”
The Bailie was sitting as before by the stove in the inner room. But he was silent now, and had drawn up his chair and sat deep in thought.
He knew that Sigrun had not been listening to what he told her. What could he find to talk about that would make her listen to him?
He had spoken of life in the great cities of the world, and of the part women played there. He had spoken of women as those whose mission it was to reconcile, one to life. Said that men became humble and good when they met with beauty, personified in the likeness of a young woman. He had told her that one possessing the gift of beauty should regard it as a duty to use it for healing, reconciling, bettering her fellow creatures.
But, to tell the truth, he hardly knew whether she had heard a single word of all he had said.
It was easier to attract her attention when her husband was there. Then, he never spoke to her at all, but only to the Pastor.
And then, he felt, he was forcing her to make comparison between the experienced man of the world and the simple Priest; between one who had seen and shared in great events and one who buried himself in a wilderness, never studying, never progressing, but in a fair way to sink to the level of a common peasant.
He knew that the Priest despised him. He was often irritated and humiliated by his host’s treatment. But he bore it all very patiently, knowing that nothing was more calculated to lower the husband in the eyes of his wife than his showing himself tactless and devoid of finer feeling.
The Bailie sat silent for some minutes, and then taking a subject near at hand in these days of the Great War, he commenced to talk of the Red Cross, its originators, its organization, and the brave work of the Red Cross Sisters in the war.
He noticed at once that the beautiful woman by his side became attentive; she tore herself away from her own thoughts and listened.
Just at the moment when the Bailie had begun talking about the Red Cross, it happened that Lotta Hedman lifted her eyes from her Bible. Her thoughts were suddenly restless, and she could not keep her mind concentrated on her work.
“I wonder,” she thought to herself, “if Sigrun has ceased to love her husband. She hardly ever speaks of him now. And the servants say he plagues her with his jealousy. But one thing is certain: he wrongs her in that. If she does not care for him, she certainly cares for no other man.”
A sudden smile lit up her face.
“And here’s this foolish old invalid trying to make himself agreeable,” she thought. “But that matters little; nobody bothers about him.”
“It must be a great misfortune to be so beautiful as Sigrun,” she told herself. “You are better off as you are, Lotta.”
She turned to her Bible again and tried not to think of Sigrun any more. “I hope it doesn’t mean something is going to happen to her, since I am so anxious all of a sudden.”
The Pastor sat on in his room, reading by the light of the lamp. Again and again he had glanced at the pair by the stove, noting quite carelessly and easily how they sat there, while they, on their part, found nothing to disturb them in the thought that he could see them all the time. Then suddenly he noticed a change. It was impossible to say where it lay. Perhaps the speaker’s voice had grown louder and warmer; perhaps the young wife’s attitude was different. The Pastor laid down his paper, rose to his feet, and, leaning forward with all his senses on the alert, he watched them.
The visitor was still talking about nursing and works of mercy during the war. After a little while, he saw that a tear rolled down the woman’s cheek and dropped to her knee, glistened there a moment, and disappeared; then, very gently, tear after tear fell.
For a long time he went on talking, without appearing to notice her emotion; then, suddenly, he bent forward so that he almost touched her.
“So that is what you have been wanting—that is what you are longing for?” he said. “You want to take part in the work out there yourself?”
She folded her hands and held them out toward him.
“Oh, how can I help it?” she cried—“longing for it with all my heart. It is dreadful to live on here in comfort, doing nothing.”
“But could you not get away, then?”
“There would be nothing wrong in it,” said the woman, lifting her folded hands toward the speaker. “If I could only be free for just a little while. After all, I am a human being—I ought to be allowed to choose for myself for once.”
The sick man took her hands in his and drew them toward him.
“True, indeed!” he said. “You have the right to live as well as the rest of us.”
Just then they heard footsteps behind them, saw a fierce face in the doorway of the study, and both cried aloud in dismay. The Pastor came rushing toward them, in a violent passion, which left no possibility of any explanation.
The Bailie seemed to lose his self-possession altogether. He crouched down in his chair without moving, but Sigrun threw herself toward her husband to stop him.
“Run, quick—make haste!” she cried. And the Bailie sprang to his feet and ran toward the door, while Sigrun for a moment held her husband fast.
“Edward—what is the matter?” she asked.
He did not answer, but flung her aside. She fell to the floor, striking herself badly against a corner of the table, but the Pastor, without heeding her, rushed after the fugitive, out into the hall, down the steps, and across the courtyard.
Lotta Hedman, sitting in the scullery with her Bible, was suddenly roused by the shouting and banging of doors and hurrying feet. She rose hurriedly, opened the door, and looked out. Two men were running across the courtyard; in a moment they had disappeared in the darkness.
While Lotta stood there terrified, listening to the retreating footsteps, the lad and the maids in the kitchen had likewise heard the noise, and sprung up from their seats. And now they saw their young mistress come staggering in toward them, her hair and dress in disorder, and the blood flowing from a cut on her forehead. All four hurried to her, but she waved them off impatiently.
“Never mind about me,” she cried. “Hurry after my husband and—the other one. Quick, and look after them before they kill each other.”
The four stood still, too confused to act on her orders, and she cried excitedly:
“Don’t sit there staring at me! After them, before they kill each other!”
At this the lad hurried out, and the milkmaid, a big strong girl, followed after him, but the two others stayed in the kitchen to look to their mistress.
They brought forward a chair and begged her to sit down, for she was trembling as if the floor were swaying under her.
Her strength was at an end now, and she fell to crying like a child.
“Help me over to Lotta Hedman,” she cried. “Help me over to Lotta.”
The two servants took her under the arms and led her across the courtyard to Lotta’s room.
And Lotta, standing in the doorway, saw them coming, and hurried forward to meet Sigrun. She led her to the wicker chair that had been waiting for her all the evening.
“And I have done nothing,” said Sigrun. “Lotta, I have done nothing wrong. We were just talking, that was all. And he was sitting in the next room, watching.”
Suddenly she turned deathly pale, and would have fainted, but Lotta dashed water in her face, and she came to herself.
Lotta made haste to wash the cut on her head, and saw it was neither deep nor serious; but what troubled her most was that Sigrun seemed hardly to be quite clear in her mind. She talked all the time, repeating the same thing over and over again.
“And I have done nothing,” she said. “I have done nothing wrong. We were just talking. And he was sitting in the next room, watching.”
“Oh, I know, Sigrun—I know you have done no wrong,” said Lotta, addressing her now familiarly, as in the old days.
“You understand, Lotta, I know,” said Sigrun again. “I have done nothing....”
Lotta tried to interrupt her.
“Sigrun, I’m so afraid you will be ill,” she said. “We must ask Malin to get your bed ready, and you can lie down.”
But at this, the flow of words suddenly stopped.
“No, not there! I will never go back to him,” said the sick woman quite briefly and dearly.’
“But, dear angel,” said Lotta. “You can never mean that!”
“I will lie down here,” said Sigrun. “I will sleep in your bed, Lotta. I can feel I am going to be ill. And I must be in a place where I feel safe.”
A moment later she began again as before:
“I have done nothing wrong. We were just talking. And he was sitting in the next room, and came rushing in....”
She looked at them with her eyes all wild, as if wondering why they did not follow what she was saying.
Lotta talked over with the two servants what was best to be done. They could find nothing better than to let the sick woman have her way. The housemaid hurried into the house and came back with sheets and pillows and blankets. Sigrun began hurriedly undressing; they had scarcely got the bed done before she was ready.
And as she was getting into bed, she cried again, so that it could be heard all through the place: “I have done nothing wrong. We were just talking. And he was in the next room, and came running in....”
As soon as Sigrun was well in bed, she called gently to Lotta:
“Don’t go to bed yet, Lotta. Sit there by the table and read your Bible. And mind, you must not let anyone in the world come and take me away from here.”
And so it was. Lotta sat down with her Bible and the two servants went into the house to see how matters were going there.
A moment later one of them came back with the news that nothing very terrible had happened. The Bailie had made his escape; the Pastor himself had fallen into a ditch in his pursuit, and they feared he had broken his leg. Bad enough, certainly, yet not by any means the worst that might have happened.
Sigrun was still crying aloud her explanation, but when Lotta had told her several times that there had been no fight between the men, she seemed to grow calmer, and went off to sleep.