Little Tora, The Swedish Schoolmistress and Other Stories Part 7

Some idea like this flitted through the mind of the stranger, though he did not appear like a devout wors.h.i.+pper. His whole bearing gave quite another impression. Even when, during prayers later on, he held up his hat before his face, as is supposed to be a devout att.i.tude in some Christian lands, the little girl fancied she could see him peeping here and there round the church, as if he were taking an inventory of its specialties. It was but a simple country church, with square pillars of masonry supporting the galleries, from whence light wooden columns rose to the vaulted roof. Indeed, in the old-fas.h.i.+oned building the rural seemed to have been the only style of architecture attempted. The whole interior had been thoroughly whitewashed, however it had fared with the hearts of the wors.h.i.+ppers.

During the sermon the stranger was evidently lost in his own meditations. As soon as the service was over, he followed the clergyman down the aisle to the sacristy, on one side of the main door.

The reverend gentleman was in the midst of disrobing, when the dark-faced man hastily entered and said abruptly, "Will you kindly look over this paper, which must be my only credential with you? I belong to this parish, and should be glad to have the privileges of members.h.i.+p when broken down and needing a home."

The pastor glanced at the paper. It was a simple certificate, from a well-known dignitary high in authority in the land, requesting that the bearer, without being subject to further investigation, should have his right acknowledged as a member of the parish to which he now made application. The pastor could treat him accordingly, only showing the paper in case any difficulty arising from this arrangement should make such publicity necessary.

The paper was properly signed, witnessed, and sealed. The pastor put it in his pocket, looked wonderingly at the applicant, and said, "The poorhouse is but a mean place, with accommodation for a few persons, and the present occupants are of the humblest sort. There are now living there an old woman, formerly a servant in respectable families, who has a room to herself; a half-mad fellow, who will not speak when spoken to unless he can hit on some way of answering in rhyme. He, of course, has a room to himself. There is, besides, a large room with sleeping-places for two persons. One of these places is occupied by an old man who has been a hard drinker; you would have to share the room with him. Would you be contented with that arrangement?"

"Contented and grateful," said the stranger. His name was given as "A.

Johanson," and was so registered in the pastor's note-book. Particular directions were then kindly lavished on the stranger as to how he was to reach his future home.

A peculiar smile stole over the face of the listener. He took politely the permit which ensured his admittance at the last refuge of the unfortunate, and then, with a bow and a slight waving of the limp hat, he disappeared.

CHAPTER III.

IN THE POORHOUSE.

The poorhouse was not an imposing structure, but it could boast of antiquity, as it had been built long, long ago for the purpose for which it was now used.

It was not difficult for Johanson to locate the poorhouse poet. His room, like the other two, opened directly on the vestibule. On his own door he had been allowed to paint his name and publish his chosen occupation:--

"I take my bag, My legs my nag, And never fail To fetch the mail."

So ran the poor rhymes, yet the mad poet had not given himself his full meed of praise. No storm was too wild, no cold too severe, no snow too deep for the faithful mail-carrier to make his rounds. Rather than give up the leathern bag entrusted to him to teasing country boys or desperate highwayman, he would have died in its defence.

The principle of growth had exerted its power eccentrically with the poorhouse poet. His legs and neck were elongated out of all proportion to the rest of his body. His small, pale face was raised unnaturally high in the air, as if he had suffered decapitation and his head had been posted as an a.s.surance that offended law had been avenged.

Unconscious of his own peculiarities, the persistent rhymer went about pleased with himself and all the world. Now he was particularly happy, for he considered himself a kind of presiding officer at the poorhouse, and as such the proper person to show the premises to curious strangers, or to formally install new inmates. On the entrance of Johanson with the pastor's permit, the poet immediately took the odd-looking pauper in hand, to make him at home in the establishment.

He knocked at the small room opposite the main entrance, and a shrill voice having shouted, "Come in!" the visitors opened the door.

"I bring a new-comer, Our guest for the summer!

He's Johanson, he; Gull Hansdotter, she."

So presented, Johanson bowed to the little old woman, who stood up beside the chair in which she had been sitting, and deigned to bend her knees for a courtesy just sufficiently to bring her short skirts possibly one inch nearer the floor. Her stiff demeanour, however, changed suddenly as she darted to a corner and produced a bit of rag carpet, on which she requested the visitors to stand, as her room had been freshly scoured for Sunday.

"Scour Sunday, Scour Monday, Scour every day, That's her way,"

said the poet, retiring precipitately with his companion. The poet had described the absorbing pursuit of his fellow-lodger. Chairs, table, and floor in that little room were subject to such rasping purifications, that if there had ever been paint on any of them, it was a thing of the far past, while an ashy whiteness and a general smell of dampness were the abiding peculiarities of the apartment. The eyes of the owner had become possessed of a microscopic power of discovering the minutest speck that might have been envied by any scientific observer of insect life.

The poet next threw open the door of the room opposite his own, as he said to his companion,--

"Here is your place-- No want of s.p.a.ce; According to diet, Not always so quiet."

These were the quarters Johanson was to share with the broad-chested man in a big chair, who sat with a stout stick beside him, as if ready at any moment to meet the attack of a roving marauder.

"This is our cellar-master, Who lived faster and faster, Till here with us he had to be.-- It's Johanson who comes with me; He'll share your room, at least to-night, And longer if you treat him right."

There was only an inhospitable grunt from the gouty, red-faced man whose biography had been more justly than politely abridged for the new-comer.

Johanson had no luggage to deposit. He thanked his conductor for the trouble he had taken, and then seated himself on a wooden chair on his side of the room, and had evidently no further need of his guide, who promptly disappeared.

Johanson seemed gazing out of the window, but was really seeing nothing, while quite lost in his own thoughts, and altogether forgetful of his companion.

There was a pounding on the floor, followed by a rumbling sound, as of some one preparing to speak, and then the other occupant of the room said roughly: "Here, you! Do you see that crack across the middle of the floor, with three big, dark knots in the middle on each side of it?

That's my landmark. You come over it, and there'll be mischief!"

"I shall take great pleasure in attending to your wishes. It is not likely that I shall visit you often," said Johanson, rising and bowing with much politeness, and then promptly resuming his seat.

The next step of the new lodger was to take a small, carefully-covered book from his pocket. The gilt edges, dulled by time, were, however, observed by the watchful spectator, a prisoner in his chair. The fine print and the divided verses were evident to his keen eyes, that twinkled in their red frames with an uncanny light. "No hypocrisy here!

it don't take. Put up that book, or I'll throw my friend here at you. I never miss, so look out!" He touched the club-like stick beside him.

Johanson quickly put his hand in his breast-pocket and took out a small revolver. "Here is _my_ friend," he said. "I never miss with this in my hand!" He spoke coolly, but his eyes were fearless and determined. "You let me alone, and I'll let you alone. I want to live peaceably. I shall do what I please on my side of the room, and I want no meddling from you."

The cellar-master understood at once that he had here a person not to be trifled with, and from that day there was no difficulty between them.

The revolver may or may not have been loaded, but the sight of it had been enough for the cellar-master, as for many a "rough" before.

As to the little woman who had given Johanson so ungracious a reception on his first appearance in her room, he had evidently taken an aversion to her society. When she came into his duplicated quarters, he was always looking out into the street, or so occupied that she had a better view of his back than of his face. He never named her, nor was she ever mentioned in the establishment by her lawful cognomen, but was always spoken of as "she," representing alone, as she did, her own s.e.x in the poorhouse.

It seemed to her a wonder that with all her claims to respectability she had ever found her way to her present home. The walls of her room were decorated with silhouettes of this or that grand personage in whose service she had enjoyed the honour of being in days of yore. Such mementoes failing her, there were coveted seals to letters, or paper headings cut out and duly pointed at the edges, to s.h.i.+ne forth from red backgrounds. A daguerreotype of herself, in all the buxom freshness of youth and the "bravery" of a gaily-adorned peasant costume, was always to be seen standing on her bureau half open, like the book of an absent-minded scholar disturbed in his researches. Her pretensions imposed not a little upon the cellar-master, who treated her with a certain respect; but the poet was unmindful of her social claims, and perhaps took a pleasure in showing his independence of her rule. Rule it was, for she condescended to cook for "those poor men folks," as she called them.

Not that her cooking was ever of an elaborate order--coffee and porridge being the only dainties on which she was permitted to display her full powers. Warming up and making over other dishes kindly sent in by benevolent neighbours she did to perfection, and showed in this matter an ingenuity most remarkable. When, however, she took in the meals she had prepared for the various recipients, it was with a studied ungraciousness, abated only for the cellar-master, who, as she said, had a respectable t.i.tle of his own, and was suitable company for her.

Johanson, who had come to his present abode empty-handed, provided himself by degrees with needful articles of clothing of the simplest sort, as well as necessities for the toilet and the writing-table. The pen was much in his hand. It was used occasionally for a letter to the nearest large city, and such a missive was generally followed by a parcel, which was stowed away at once in the capacious chest appointed for his use.

The cellar-master was sure that it was on sheets ruled like music-paper that Johanson was almost constantly writing, though they were locked up in his chest almost before they were fairly dry. He did not seem to be a reader, but the objectionable little book with the gilt edges came out at a regular hour each day, and for five minutes at least had his full attention, without offensive interruption.

On the whole, the poorhouse had become for Johanson a peaceful and in a measure a comfortable home.

CHAPTER IV.

PREPARING FOR CONFIRMATION.

With the autumn began for the pastor the most pleasing duty of the year--the instruction of his cla.s.s for confirmation. He announced in church one Sunday that after the service he would be in the sacristy to take the names of any of the young people who wished to join the proposed cla.s.s. He was sitting in the sacristy at the appointed time, with a group of young rustics standing about him, when Johanson came quietly in.

"I can attend to you first," said the pastor, turning kindly towards the dark-bearded man.

"I can wait; I am in no hurry," was the reply.