Jan of Ruffluck Croft never tired of telling about the day when his little girl came into the world. In the early morning he had been to fetch the midwife, and other helpers; all the forenoon and a good part of the afternoon he had sat on the chopping-block, in the woodshed, with nothing to do but to wait.
Outside it rained in torrents and he came in for his share of the downpour, although he was said to be under cover. The rain reached him in the guise of dampness through cracks in the walls and as drops from a leaky roof, then all at once, through the doorless opening of the shed, the wind swept a regular deluge in upon him.
"I just wonder if anybody thinks I'm glad to have that young one coming?" he muttered, impatiently kicking at a small stick of wood and sending it flying across the yard. "This is about the worst luck that could come to me! When we got married, Katrina and I, it was because we were tired of drudging as hired girl and farmhand for Eric of Falla, and wanted to plant our feet under our own table; but certainly not to raise children!"
He buried his face in his hands and sighed heavily. It was plain that the chilly dampness and the long dreary wait had somewhat to do with putting him in a bad humour, but they were by no means the only cause. The real reason for his lament was something far more serious.
"I've got to work every day," he reminded himself, "work from early morning till late in the evening; but so far I've at least had some peace nights. Now I suppose that young one will be squalling the whole night long, and I'll get no rest then, either."
Whereupon an even worse fear seized him. Taking his hands from before his face he wrung them so hard that the knuckles fairly cracked. "Up to this we've managed to scratch along pretty well, because Katrina, has been free to go out and work, the same as myself, but now she'll have to sit at home and take care of that young one."
He sat staring in front of him as hopelessly as if he had beheld Famine itself stalking across the yard and making straight for his hut.
"Well!" said he, bringing his two fists down on the chopping-block by way of emphasis. "I just want to say that if I'd only known at the time when Eric of Falla came to me and offered to let me build on his ground, and gave me some old timber for a little shack, if I had only known then that this would happen, I'd have said no to the whole business, and gone on living in the stable-loft at Falla for the rest of my days."
He knew these were strong words, but felt no inclination to take them back.
"Supposing something were to happen—?" he began—for by that time matters had reached such a pass with him he would not have minded it if the child had met with some mishap before coming into the world—but he never finished what he wished to say as he was interrupted by a faint cry from the other side of the wall.
The woodshed was attached to the house itself. As he listened, he heard one peep after the other from within, and knew, of course, what that meant. Then, for a long while he sat very still, feeling neither glad nor sorry. Finally he said, with a little shrug:
"So it's here at last! And now, for the love of God, they might let me slip in to warm myself!"
But that comfort was not to be his so soon! There were more hours of waiting ahead of him.
The rain still came down in sheets and the wind increased. Though only the latter part of August, it was as disagreeable as a November day. To cap the climax, he fell to brooding over something that made him even more wretched. He felt that he was being slighted and set aside.
"There are three womenfolk, beside the midwife, in there with Katrina," he murmured. "One of them, at least, might have taken the trouble to come and tell me whether it's a boy or a girl."
He could hear them bustling about, as they made up a fire, and saw them run out to the well to fetch water, but of his existence no one seemed to be aware.
Of a sudden he clapped his hands to his eyes and began to rock himself backward and forward. "My dear Jan Anderson," he said in his mind, "what's wrong with you? Why does everything go against you? Why must you always have such a dull time of it? And why couldn't you have married some good-looking young girl, instead of that ugly old Katrina from Falla?"
He was so unspeakably wretched! Even a few tears trickled down between his fingers. "Why are you made so little of in the parish, my good Jan Anderson? Why should you always be pushed back for others? You know there are those who are just as poor as yourself and whose work is no better than yours; but no one gets put down the way you do. What can be the matter with you, my dear Jan Anderson?"
These were queries he had often put to himself, though in vain, and he had no hope of finding the answer to them now, either. After all, perhaps there was nothing wrong with him? Perhaps the only explanation was that both God and his fellowmen were unfair to him?
When that thought came to him, he took his hands from before his eyes and tried to put on a bold face.
"If you're ever again allowed inside your own house, my good Jan Anderson, you mustn't so much as glance toward the young one, but march yourself straight over to the fireplace and sit down, without saying a word. Or, suppose you get right up and walk away! You don't have to sit here any longer now that you know it's over with. Suppose you show Katrina and the rest of the womenfolk that you're not a man to be trifled with. … "
He was just on the point of rising, when the mistress of Falla appeared in the doorway of the woodshed, and, with a charming curtsy, bade him come inside to have a peep at the infant.
Had it been any one else than the mistress of Falla herself that had invited him in, it is doubtful whether he would have gone at all, angry as he was. Her he had to follow, of course, but he took his own time about it. He tried to assume the air and bearing of Eric of Falla, when the latter strode across the floor of the town hall to deposit his vote in the ballot-box, and succeeded remarkably well in looking quite as solemn and important.
"Please walk in," said the mistress of Falla, opening the door for him, then stepping aside to let him go first.
One glance at the room told him that everything had been cleaned and tidied up in there. The coffeepot, newly polished and full and steaming, stood at the edge of the hearth, to cool; the table, over by the window, was spread with a snow-white cover, on which were arranged dainty flowered cups and saucers belonging to the mistress of Falla. Katrina lay on the bed and two of the women, who had come to lend a hand, stood pressed against the wall so that he should have a free and unobstructed view of all the preparations. Directly in front of the table stood the midwife, with a bundle on her arm.
Jan could not help thinking that for once in his life he appeared to be the centre of attraction. Katrina glanced up at him appealingly, as if wanting to ask whether he was pleased with her. The other women, too, all turned their eyes toward him, expectantly waiting for some word of praise from him for all the trouble they had been to on his account.
However, it is not so easy to appear jubilant when one has been half frozen and out of sorts all day! Jan could not clear his face of that Eric-of-Falla expression, and stood there without saying a word.
Then the midwife took a step forward. The hut was so tiny that that one stride put her square in front of him, so that she could place the child in his arms.
"Now Jan shall have a peek at the li'l' lassie She's what I'd call a real baby!" said the midwife.
And there stood Jan, holding in his two hands something soft and warm done up in a big shawl, a corner of which had been turned back that he might see the little wrinkled face and the tiny wizzened hands. He was wondering what the womenfolk expected him to do with that which had been thrust upon him, when he felt a sudden shock that shook both him and the child. It had not come from any of the women and whether it had passed through the child to him or through him to the child, he could not tell.
Immediately after, the heart of him began to beat in his breast as it had never done before. Now he was no longer cold, or sad, or worried. Nor did he feel angry. All was well with him. But he could not comprehend why there was a thumping and a beating in his breast, when he had not been dancing, or running, or climbing hills.
"My good woman," he said to the midwife, "do lay your hand here and feel of my heart! It seems to beat so queerly."
"Why, it's a regular attack of the heart!" the midwife declared.
"But perhaps you're subject to these spells?"
"No," he assured her. "I've never had one before—not just in this way."
"Do you feel bad? Are you in pain?"
"Oh, no!"
Then the midwife could not make out what ailed him. "Anyhow," said she, "I'll relieve you of the child."
But now Jan felt he did not want to give up the child. "Ah, let me hold the little girl!" he pleaded.
The womenfolk must have read something in his eyes, or caught something in his tone that pleased them: for the midwife's mouth had a peculiar quirk and the other women all burst out laughing.
"Say Jan, have you never cared so much for somebody that your heart has been set athrobbing because of her?" asked the midwife.
"No indeed!" said Jan.
But at that moment he knew what it was that had quickened the heart in him. Moreover he was beginning to perceive what had been amiss with him all his life, and that he whose heart does not respond to either joy or sorrow can hardly be called human.
The following day Jan of Ruffluck Croft stood waiting for hours on the doorstep of his hut, with the little girl in his arms.
This, too, was a long wait. But now it was all so different from the day before. He was standing there in such good company that he could become neither weary nor disheartened. Nor could he begin to tell how good it felt to be holding the warm little body pressed close to his heart. It occurred to him that hitherto he had been mighty sour and unpleasant, even to himself; but now all was bliss and sweetness within him. He had never dreamed that one could be so gladdened by just loving some one.
He had not stationed himself on the doorstep without a purpose, as may be assumed. It was an important matter that he must try to settle while standing there. He and Katrina had spent the whole morning trying to choose a name for the child. They had been at it for hours, without arriving at a decision. Finally Katrina had said: "I don't see but that you'll have to take the child and go stand on the stoop with her. Then you can ask the first female that happens along what her name is, and the name she names we must give to the girl, be it ugly or pretty."
Now the hut lay rather out of the way and it was seldom that any one passed by their place; so Jan had to stand out there ever so long, without seeing a soul. This was also a gray day, though no rain fell. It was not windy and cold, however, but rather a bit sultry. If Jan had not held the little girl in his arms he would have lost heart.
"My dear Jan Anderson," he would have said to himself. "You must remember that you live away down in the Ashdales, by Dove Lake, where there isn't but one decent farmhouse and here and there a poor fisherman's hut. Who'll you find hereabout with a name that's pretty enough to give to your little girl?"
But since this was something which concerned his daughter he never doubted that all would come right. He stood looking down toward the lake, as if not caring to her how shut in from the whole countryside it lay, in its rock-basin. He thought it might just happen that some high-toned lady, with a grand name, would come rowing across from Doveness, on the south shore of the lake. Because of the little girl he felt almost sure this would come to pass.
The child slept the whole time; so for all of her he could have stood there and waited as long as he liked. But the worrisome person was Katrina! Every other minute she would ask him whether any one had come along yet and if he thought it prudent to keep the infant out in the damp air any longer.
Jan turned his eyes up toward Great Peak, rising high above the little groves and garden-patches of the Ashdales, like a watch tower atop some huge fortress, keeping all strangers at a distance. Still it might be possible that some great lady, who had been up to the Peak, to view the beautiful landscape had taken the wrong path back and strayed in the direction of Ruffluck.
He quieted Katrina as well as he could. The child was safe enough, he assured her. Now that he had stood out there so long he wanted to wait another minute or so.
Not a soul hove in sight, but he was confident that if he just stuck to it, the help would come. It could not be otherwise. It would not have surprised him if a queen in a golden chariot had come driving over mountains and through thickets, to bestow her name upon his little girl.
More moments passed, and he knew that dusk would soon be falling. Then he would not be let stand there longer. Katrina looked at the clock, and again begged him to come inside.
"Just you be patient a second!" he said. "I think I see something peeping out over west."
The sky had been overcast the whole day, but at that moment the sun [Note: In Swedish the sun is feminine.] came bursting out from behind the clouds, and darted a few rays down toward the child.
"I don't wonder at your wanting to have a peek at the li'l' lassie before you go down," said Jan to the sun. "She's something worth seeing!"
The sun came forth, clearer and clearer, and shed a rose-coloured glow over both the child and the hut.
"Maybe you'd like to be godmother to 'er?" said Jan of Ruffluck.
To which the sun made no direct reply. She just beamed for a moment, then drew her mist-cloak about her and disappeared.
Once again Katrina was heard from. "Was any one there?" asked she. "I thought I heard you talking to somebody. You'd better come inside now."
"Yes, now I'm coming," he answered, and stepped in. "Such a grand old aristocrat just went by! But she was in so great a hurry I had barely time to say 'go'day' to her, before she was gone."
"Goodness me! How provoking!" exclaimed Katrina. "And after we'd waited so long, too! I suppose you didn't have a chance to ask what her name was?"
"Oh, yes. Her name is Glory Goldie Sunnycastle—that much I got out of her."
"Glory Goldie Sunnycastle! But won't that name be a bit too dazzling?" was Katrina's only comment.
Jan of Ruffluck was positively astonished at himself for having hit upon something so splendid as making the sun godmother to his child. He had indeed become a changed man from the moment the little girl was first laid in his arms!
When the little girl of Ruffluck Croft was to be taken to the parsonage, to be christened, that father of hers behaved so foolishly that Katrina and the godparents were quite put out with him.
It was the wife of Eric of Falla who was to bear the child to the christening. She sat in the cart with the infant while Eric of Falla, himself, walked alongside the vehicle, and held the reins. The first part of the road, all the way to Doveness, was so wretched it could hardly be called a road, and of course Eric had to drive very carefully, since he had the unchristened child to convey.
Jan had himself brought the child from the house and turned it over to the godmother, and had seen them set out. No one knew better than he into what good hands it was being intrusted. And he also knew that Eric of Falla was just as confident at handling the reins as at everything else. As for Eric's wife—why she had borne and reared seven children; therefore he should not have felt the least bit uneasy.
Once they were well on their way and Jan had again gone back to his digging, a terrible sense of fear came over him. What if Eric's horse should shy? What if the parson should drop the child? What if the mistress of Falla should wrap too many shawls around the little girl, so she'd be smothered when they arrived with her at the parsonage?
He argued with himself that it was wrong in him to borrow trouble, when his child had such godfolk as the master and mistress of Falla. Yet his anxiety would not be stilled. Of a sudden he dropped his spade and started for the parsonage just as he was taking the short cut across the heights, and running at top speed all the way. When Eric of Falla drove into the stable-yard of the parsonage the first person that met his eyes was Jan of Ruffluck.
Now, it is not considered the proper thing for the father or mother to be present at the christening, and Jan saw at once that the Falla folk were displeased at his coming to the parsonage. Eric did not beckon to him to come and help with the horse, but unharnessed the beast himself, and the mistress of Falla, drawing the child closer to her, crossed the yard and went into the parson's kitchen, without saying a word to Jan.
Since the godparents would not so much as notice him, he dared not approach them; but when the godmother swept past him he heard a little piping sound from the bundle on her arm. Then he at least knew the child had not been smothered.
He felt it was stupid in him not to have gone home at once. But now he was so sure the parson would drop the child, that he had to stay.
He lingered a moment in the stable-yard, then went straight over to the house and up the steps into the hallway.
It is the worst possible form for the father to appear before the clergyman, particularly when his child has such sponsors as Eric of Falla, and his wife. When the door to the pastor's study swung open and Jan of Ruffluck in his soiled workaday clothes calmly shuffled into the room, just after the pastor had begun the service and there was no way of driving him out, the godparents swore to themselves that once they were home they would take him severely to task for his unseemly behaviour.
The christening passed off as it should without the slightest occasion for a mishap, and Jan of Ruffluck had nothing for his intrusion. Just before the close of the service he opened the door and quietly slipped out again, into the hallway. He saw of course that everything seemed to go quite smoothly and nicely without his help.
In a little while Eric of Falla and his wife also came out into the hall. They were going across to the kitchen, where the mistress of Falla had left the child's outer wraps and shawls. Eric went ahead and opened the door for his wife, whereupon two kittens came darting into the hallway and tumbled over each other right in front of the woman's feet, tripping her. She felt herself going headlong and barely had time to think: "I'm falling with the child; it will be killed and I'll be heartbroken for life," when a strong hand seized and steadied her. Looking round she saw that her rescuer was Jan Anderson of Ruffluck, who had lingered in the hallway as if knowing he would be needed there. Before she could recover herself sufficiently to thank him, he was gone.
And when she and her husband came driving home, there stood Jan digging away. After the accident had been averted, he had felt that he might safely go back to his work.
Neither Eric nor his wife said a word to him about his unseemly behaviour. Instead, the mistress of Falla invited him in for afternoon coffee, muddy and begrimed as he was from working in the wet soil.
When the little girl of Ruffluck was to be vaccinated no one questioned the right of her father to accompany her, since that was his wish. The vaccinating took place one evening late in August. When Katrina left home, with the child, it was so dark that she was glad to have some one along who could help her over stiles and ditches, and other difficulties of the wretched road.
The vaccination bee was held that year at Falla. The housewife had made a big fire on the hearth in the living-room and thought it unnecessary to furnish any other illumination, except a thin tallow candle that burned on a small table, at which the sexton was to perform his surgical work.
The Ruffluck folk, as well as every one else, found the room uncommonly light, although it was as dim at the back as if a dark-gray wall had been raised there—making the room appear smaller than it was. And in this semi-darkness could be dimly seen a group of women with babes in arms that had to be trundled, and fed, and tended in every way.
The mothers were busy unwinding shawls and mufflers late from their little ones, drawing off their slips, and unloosing the bands of their undershirts, so that the upper portion of their little bodies could be easily exposed when the sexton called them up to the operating table.
It was remarkably quiet in the room, considering there were so many little cry-babies all gathered in one place. The youngsters seemed to be having such a good time gazing at one another they forgot to make a noise. The mothers were quiet because they wanted to hear what the sexton had to say; for he kept up a steady flow of small talk.
"There's no fun like going about vaccinating and looking at all the pretty babies," said he. "Now we shall see whether it's a fine lot you've brought me this year."
The man was not only the sexton of the parish, where he had lived all his life, but he was also the schoolmaster. He had vaccinated the mothers, had taught them, and seen them confirmed and married. Now he was going to vaccinate their babies. This was the children's first contact with the man who was to play such an important part in their lives.
It seemed to be a good beginning. One mother after the other came forward and sat down on a chair at the table, each holding her child so that the light would fall upon its bared left arm; and the sexton, chattering all the while, then made the three tiny scratches in the smooth baby skin, without so much as a peep coming from the youngster. Afterward the mother took her baby over to the fireplace to let the vaccine dry in. Meantime she thought of what the sexton had said of her child—that it was large and beautiful and would some day be a credit to the family; that it would grow up to be as good as its father and grandfather—or even better.
Everything passed off thus peacefully and quietly until it came to Katrina's turn at the table with her Glory Goldie.
The little girl simply would not be vaccinated. She screamed and fought and kicked. Katrina tried to hush her and the sexton spoke softly and gently to her; but it did no good. The poor little thing was uncontrollably frightened.
Katrina had to take her away and try to get her quieted. Then a big, sturdy boy baby let himself be vaccinated with never a whimper. But the instant Katrina was back at the table with her girl the trouble started afresh. She could not hold the child still long enough for the sexton to make even a single incision.
Now there was no one left to vaccinate but Glory Goldie of Ruffluck. Katrina was in despair because of her child's bad behaviour. She did not know what to do about it, when Jan suddenly emerged from the shadow of the door and took the child in his arms. Then Katrina got up to let him take her place at the table.
"You just try it once!" she said scornfully, "and let's see whether you'll do any better." For Katrina did not regard the little toil-worn servant from Falla whom she had married as in any sense her superior.
Before sitting down, Jan slipped off his jacket. He must have rolled up his shirt sleeve while standing in the dark, at the back of the room, for his left arm was bared.
He wanted so much to be vaccinated, he said. He had never been vaccinated but once, and there was nothing in the world he feared so much as the smallpox.
The instant the little girl saw his bare arm she became quiet, and looked at her father with wide, comprehending eyes. She followed closely every movement of the sexton, as he put in the three short red strokes on the arm. Glancing from one to the other, she noticed that her father was not faring so very badly.
When the sexton had finished with Jan, the latter turned to him, and said:
"The li'l' lassie is so still now that maybe you can try it."
The sexton tried, and this time everything went well. The little girl was as quiet as a mouse the whole time—the same knowing look in her eyes. The sexton also kept silence until he had finished; then he said to the father:
"If you did that only to calm the child, we could just as well have made believe—"
"No, Sexton," said Jan, "then you would not have succeeded. You never saw the like of that child! So don't imagine you can get her to believe in something that isn't what it passes for."
On the little girl's first birthday her father was out digging in the field at Falla; he tried to recall to mind how it had been in the old days, when he had no one to think about while at work in the field; when he did not have the beating heart in him, and when he had no longings and was never anxious.
"To think that a man can be like that!" he mused in contempt of his old self. "If I were as rich as Eric of Falla or as strong as Börje, who digs here beside me, it would be as nothing to having a throbbing heart in your breast. That's the only thing that counts."
Glancing over at his comrade, a powerfully built fellow who could do again as much work as himself, he noticed that to-day the man had not gone ahead as rapidly as usual with the digging.
They worked by the job. Börje always took upon himself more work than did Jan, yet they always finished at about the same time. That day, however, it went slowly for Börje; he did not even keep up with Jan, but was left far behind.
But then Jan had been working for all he was worth, that he might the sooner get back to his little girl. That day he had longed for her more than usual. She was always drowsy evenings; so unless he hurried home early, he was likely to find her asleep for the night when he got home.
When Jan had completed his work he saw that Börje was not even half through. Such a thing had never happened before in all the years they had worked together, and Jan was so astonished he went over to him.
Börje was standing deep down in the ditch, trying to loosen a clump of sod. He had stepped on a piece of glass, and received an ugly gash on the bottom of his foot, so that he could hardly step on it. Imagine the torture of having to stand and push the spade into the soil with an injured foot!
"Aren't you going to quit soon?" asked Jan.
"I'm obliged to finish this job to-day," replied the comrade. "I can't get any grain from Eric of Falia till the work is done, and we're all out of rye-meal."
"Then go'-night for to-day," said Jan.
Börje did not respond. He was too tired and done up to give even the customary good-night salutation.
Jan of Ruffluck walked to the edge of the field; but there he halted.
"What does it matter to the little girl whether or not you come home for her birthday?" he thought. "She's just as well off without you. But Börje has seven kiddies at home, and no food for them. Shall you let them starve so that you can go home and play with Glory Goldie?"
Then he wheeled round, walked back to Börje, and got down into the ditch to help him. Jan was rather tired after his day's toil and could not work very fast. It was almost dark when they got through.
"Glory Goldie must be asleep this long while," thought Jan, when he finally put in the spade for the last bit of earth.
"Go'-night for to-day," he called back to Börje for the second time.
"Go'-night," returned Börje, "and thanks to you for the help. Now I must hurry along and get my rye. Another time I'll give you a lift, be sure of that!"
"I don't want any pay … Go'-night!"
"Don't you want anything for helping me?" asked Börje. "What's come over you, that you're so stuck-up all at once?"
"Well, you see, it's—it's the lassie's birthday to-day."
"And for that I got help with my digging?"
"Yes, for that and for something else, too! Well—good bye to you!"
Jan hurried away so as not to be tempted to explain what that something else was. It had been on the tip of his tongue to say: "To-day is not only Glory Goldie's birthday, but it's also the birthday of my heart."
It was as well, perhaps, that he did not say it, for Börje would surely have thought Jan had gone out of his mind.
Christmas morning Jan took the little girl along with him to church; she was then just one year and four months old.
Katrina thought the girl rather young to attend church and feared she would set up a howl, as she had done at the vaccination bee; but inasmuch as it was the custom to take the little ones along to Christmas Matins, Jan had his own way.
So at five o'clock on Christmas Morn they all set out. It was pitch dark and cloudy, but not cold; in fact the air was almost balmy, and quite still, as it usually is toward the end of December.
Before coming to an open highway, they had to walk along a narrow winding path, through fields and groves in the Ashdales, then take the steep winter-road across Snipa Ridge.
The big farmhouse at Falla, with lighted candles at every window, stood out as a beacon to the Ruffluck folk, so that they were able to find their way to Börje's hut; there they met some of their neighbours, bearing torches they had prepared on Christmas Eve. Each torch-bearer led a small group of people most of whom followed in silence; but all were happy; they felt that they, too, like the Wise Men of old, were following a star, in quest of the new-born King.
When they came to the forest heights they had to pass by a huge stone which had been hurled at Svartsjö Church, by a giant down in Frykerud, but which, luckily, had gone over the steeple and dropped here on Snipa Ridge. When the church-goers came along, the stone lay, as usual, on the ground. But they knew, they did, that in the night it had been raised upon twelve golden pillars and that the trolls had danced and feasted under it.
It was not so very pleasant to have to walk past a stone like that! Jan looked over at Katrina to see whether she was holding the little girl securely. Katrina, calm and unconcerned, walked along, chatting with one of their neighbours. She was quite oblivious, apparently, to the terrors of the place.
The spruce trees up there were old and gnarled, and their branches were dotted with clumps of snow. As seen in the glow of the torch light, one could not but think that some of the trees were really trolls, with gleaming eyes beneath snow hats, and long sharp claws protruding from thick snow mittens.
It was all very well so long as they held themselves still. But what if one of them should suddenly stretch forth a hand and seize somebody? There was no special danger for grown-ups and old people; but Jan had always heard that the trolls had a great fondness for small children—the smaller the better. It seemed to him that Katrina was holding the little girl very carelessly. It would be no trick at all for the huge clawlike troll hands to snatch the child from her. Of course he could not take the baby out of her arms in a dangerous spot like this, for that might cause the trolls to act.
Murmurs and whispers now passed from tree-troll to tree-troll; the branches creaked as if they were about to bestir themselves.