Jerusalem. Selma Lagerlöf

do you think things can ever be right again between Ingmar and Brita?"

      "What?" gasped the old woman in astonishment.

      "I mean, if by chance she were not going to America, do you suppose she would have him?"

      "Well, I should say not!"

      "Then you are quite sure she would give him no for an answer."

      "Of course she would."

      Ingmar sat on the edge of the bed, his legs dangling over the side.

      "Now you got just what you needed, Ingmar," he thought; "and now I guess you'll take that journey to-morrow," he said, pounding the edge of the bed with his fist. "How can mother think she'll get me to stay at home by showing me that Brita doesn't like me!"

      He kept pounding the side of the bed, as if in thought he were knocking down something that was resisting him.

      "Anyway, I'm going to chance it once more," he decided. "We Ingmars begin all over again when things go wrong. No man that is a man can sit back calmly and let a woman fret herself insane over his conduct."

      Never had he felt so keenly his utter defeat, and he was determined to put himself right.

      "I'd be a hell of a man if I couldn't make Brita happy here!" he said.

      He dealt the bedpost a last blow before getting up to go back to his work.

      "As sure as you're born it was Big Ingmar that sent old Kaisa here, in order to make me tale that trip to the city."

IV

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      Ingmar Ingmarsson had arrived in the city, and was walking slowly toward the big prison house, which was beautifully situated on the crest of a hill overlooking the public park. He did not glance about him, but went with eyes downcast, dragging himself along with as much difficulty as though he were some feeble old man. He had left off his usual picturesque peasant garb on this occasion, and was wearing a black cloth suit and a starched shirt which he had already crumpled. He felt very solemn, yet all the while he was anxious and reluctant.

      On coming to the gravelled yard in front of the jail he saw a guard on duty and asked him if this was not the day that Brita Ericsson was to be discharged.

      "Yes, I think there is a woman coming out to-day," the guard answered.

      "One who has been in for infanticide," Ingmar explained.

      "Oh, that one! Yes, she'll be out this forenoon."

      Ingmar stationed himself under a tree, to wait. Not for a second did he take his eyes off the prison gate. "I dare say there are some among those who have gone in there that haven't fared any too well," he thought. "I don't want to brag, but maybe there's many a one on the inside that has suffered less than I who am outside. Well, I declare, Big Ingmar has brought me here to fetch my bride from the prison house," he remarked to himself. "But I can't say that little Ingmar is overpleased at the thought; he would have liked seeing her pass through a gate of honour instead, with her mother standing by her side, to give her to the bridegroom. And then they should have driven to the church in a flower-trimmed chaise, followed by a big bridal procession, and she should have sat beside him dressed as a bride, and smiling under her bridal crown."

      The gate opened several times. First, a chaplain come out, then it was the wife of the governor of the prison, and then some servants who were going to town. Finally Brita came. When the gate opened he felt a cramp at the heart. "It is she," he thought. His eyes dropped. He was as if paralyzed, and could not move. When he had recovered himself, he looked up; she was then standing on the steps outside the gate.

      She stood there a moment, quite still; she had pushed back her headshawl and, with eyes that were clear and open, she looked out across the landscape. The prison stood on high ground, and beyond the town and the stretches of forest she could see her native hills.

      Suddenly she seemed to be shaken by some unseen force; she covered her face with her hands and sank down upon the stone step. Ingmar could hear her sobs from where he stood.

      Presently he went over to her, and waited. She was crying so hard that she seemed deaf to every other sound; and he had to stand there a long time. At last he said:

      "Don't cry like that, Brita!"

      She looked up. "O God in Heaven!" she exclaimed, "are you here?"

      Instantly all that she had done to him flashed across her mind—and what it must have cost him to come. With a cry of joy she threw her arms around his neck and began to sob again.

      "How I have longed that you might come!" she said.

      Ingmar's heart began to beat faster at the thought of her being so pleased with him. "Why, Brita, have you really been longing for me?" he said, quite moved.

      "I have wanted so much to ask your forgiveness."

      Ingmar drew himself up to his full height and said very coldly:

      "There will be plenty of time for that I don't think we ought to stop here any longer."

      "No, this is no place to stop at," she answered meekly.

      "I have put up at Lövberg's," he said as they walked along the road.

      "That's where my trunk is."

      "I have seen it there," said Ingmar. "It's too big for the back of the cart, so it will have to be left there till we can send for it."

      Brita stopped and looked up at him. This was the first time he had intimated that he meant to take her home.

      "I had a letter from father to-day. He says that you also think that I ought to go to America."

      "I thought there was no harm in our having a second choice. It wasn't so certain that you would care to come back with me."

      She noticed that he said nothing about wanting her to come, but maybe it was because he did not wish to force himself upon her a second time. She grew very reluctant. It couldn't be an enviable task to take one of her kind to the Ingmar Farm. Then something seemed to say:

      "Tell him that you will go to America; it is the only service you can render him. Tell him that, tell him that!" urged something within her. And while this thought was still in her mind she heard some one say: "I'm afraid that I am not strong enough to go to America. They tell me that you have to work very hard over there." It was as if another had spoken, and not she herself.

      "So they say," Ingmar said indifferently.

      She was ashamed of her weakness and thought of how only that morning she had told the prison chaplain that she was going out into the world a new and a better woman. Thoroughly displeased with herself, she walked silently for some time, wondering how she should take back her words. But as soon as she tried to speak, she was held back by the thought that if he still cared for her it would be the basest kind of ingratitude to repulse him again. "If I could only read his thoughts!" she said herself.

      Presently she stopped and leaned against a wall. "All this noise and the sight of so many people makes my bead go round," she said. He put out his hand, which she took; then they went along, hand in hand. Ingmar was thinking, "Now we look like sweethearts." All the same he wondered how it would be when he got home, how his mother and the rest of the folks would take it.

      When they came to Lövberg's place, Ingmar said that his horse was now thoroughly rested, and if she had no objection they might as well cover the first few stations that day. Then she thought: "Now is the time to tell him that you won't go. Thank him first, then tell him that you don't want to go with him." She prayed God that she might be shown if he had come for her only out of pity. In the meantime Ingmar had drawn the cart out of the shed. The cart had been newly painted, the dasher shone, and the cushions had fresh covering. To the buckboard was attached a little half-withered bouquet