The Collected Works. Selma Lagerlöf
promptly answered:
"We don't care to enter that place, because those who live there are stingy and cruel. It is their fault that we two must go out on the highways and beg."
"That may be so," said the boy, "but all the same you should go there.
You shall see that it will be well for you."
"We can try, but it is doubtful that they will even let us enter," observed the two little girls as they walked up to the house and knocked.
The master was standing by the fire thinking of the horse when he heard the knocking. He stepped to the door to see what was up, thinking all the while that he would not let himself be tempted into admitting any wayfarer. As he fumbled the lock, a gust of wind came along, wrenched the door from his hand and swung it open. To close it, he had to step out on the porch, and, when he stepped back into the house, the two little girls were standing within.
They were two poor beggar girls, ragged, dirty, and starving—two little tots bent under the burden of their beggar's packs, which were as large as themselves.
"Who are you that go prowling about at this hour of the night?" said the master gruffly.
The two children did not answer immediately, but first removed their packs. Then they walked up to the man and stretched forth their tiny hands in greeting.
"We are Anna and Britta Maja from the Engärd," said the elder, "and we were going to ask for a night's lodging."
He did not take the outstretched hands and was just about to drive out the beggar children, when a fresh recollection faced him. Engärd—was not that a little cabin where a poor widow with five children had lived? The widow had owed his father a few hundred kroner and in order to get back his money he had sold her cabin. After that the widow, with her three eldest children, went to Norrland to seek employment, and the two youngest became a charge on the parish.
As he called this to mind he grew bitter. He knew that his father had been severely censured for squeezing out that money, which by right belonged to him.
"What are you doing nowadays?" he asked in a cross tone. "Didn't the board of charities take charge of you? Why do you roam around and beg?"
"It's not our fault," replied the larger girl. "The people with whom we are living have sent us out to beg."
"Well, your packs are filled," the farmer observed, "so you can't complain. Now you'd better take out some of the food you have with you and eat your fill, for here you'll get no food, as all the women folk are in bed. Later you may lie down in the corner by the hearth, so you won't have to freeze."
He waved his hand, as if to ward them off, and his eyes took on a hard look. He was thankful that he had had a father who had been careful of his property. Otherwise, he might perhaps have been forced in childhood to run about and beg, as these children now did.
No sooner had he thought this out to the end than the shrill, mocking voice he had heard once before that evening repeated it, word for word.
He listened, and at once understood that it was nothing—only the wind roaring in the chimney. But the queer thing about it was, when the wind repeated his thoughts, they seemed so strangely stupid and hard and false!
The children meanwhile had stretched themselves, side by side, on the floor. They were not quiet, but lay there muttering.
"Do be still, won't you?" he growled, for he was in such an irritable mood that he could have beaten them.
But the mumbling continued, and again he called for silence.
"When mother went away," piped a clear little voice, "she made me promise that every night I would say my evening prayer. I must do this, and Britta Maja too. As soon as we have said 'God who cares for little children—' we'll be quiet."
The master sat quite still while the little ones said their prayers, then he rose and began pacing back and forth, back and forth, wringing his hands all the while, as though he had met with some great sorrow.
"The horse driven out and wrecked, these two children turned into road beggars—both father's doings! Perhaps father did not do right after all?" he thought.
He sat down again and buried his head in his hands. Suddenly his lips began to quiver and into his eyes came tears, which he hastily wiped away. Fresh tears came, and he was just as prompt to brush these away; but it was useless, for more followed.
When his mother stepped into the room, he swung his chair quickly and turned his back to her. She must have noticed something unusual, for she stood quietly behind him a long while, as if waiting for him to speak. She realized how difficult it always is for men to talk of the things they feel most deeply. She must help him of course.
From her bedroom she had observed all that had taken place in the living room, so that she did not have to ask questions. She walked very softly over to the two sleeping children, lifted them, and bore them to her own bed. Then she went back to her son.
"Lars," she said, as if she did not see that he was weeping, "you had better let me keep these children."
"What, mother?" he gasped, trying to smother the sobs.
"I have been suffering for years—ever since father took the cabin from their mother, and so have you."
"Yes, but—"
"I want to keep them here and make something of them; they are too good to beg."
He could not speak, for now the tears were beyond his control; but he took his old mother's withered hand and patted it.
Then he jumped up, as if something had frightened him.
"What would father have said of this?"
"Father had his day at ruling," retorted the mother. "Now it is your day. As long as father lived we had to obey him. Now is the time to show what you are."
Her son was so astonished that he ceased crying.
"But I have just shown what I am!" he returned.
"No, you haven't," protested the mother. "You only try to be like him. Father experienced hard times, which made him fear poverty. He believed that he had to think of himself first. But you have never had any difficulties that should make you hard. You have more than you need, and it would be unnatural of you not to think of others."
When the two little girls entered the house the boy slipped in behind them and secreted himself in a dark corner. He had not been there long before he caught a glimpse of the shed key, which the farmer had thrust into his coat pocket.
"When the master of the house drives the children out, I'll take the key and ran," he thought.
But the children were not driven out and the boy crouched in the corner, not knowing what he should do next.
The mother talked long with her son, and while she was speaking he stopped weeping. Gradually his features softened; he looked like another person. All the while he was stroking the wasted old hand.
"Now we may as well retire," said the old lady when she saw that he was calm again.
"No," he said, suddenly rising, "I cannot retire yet. There's a stranger without whom I must shelter to-night!"
He said nothing further, but quickly drew on his coat, lit the lantern and went out. There were the same wind and chill without, but as he stepped to the porch he began to sing softly. He wondered if the horse would know him, and if he would be glad to come back to his old stable.
As he crossed the house yard he heard a door slam.
"That shed door has blown open again," he thought, and went over to close it.
A moment later he stood by the shed and was just going to shut the door, when he heard a rustling within.
The boy, who had watched his opportunity, had run directly to the shed, where he left the animals, but they were no longer out in the rain: A strong wind had long since thrown open the door and helped them to get a roof