Читать книгу Thy Soul Shall Bear Witness (Historical Novel) - Selma Lagerlöf - Страница 3

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It was a poor little Slum-Sister who lay dying. She had contracted consumption of the rapid kind, arid had not been able to resist it beyond a year. For as long as she possibly could she went about performing her usual tasks, but when her strength was quite exhausted she was sent to a sanatorium, where she was nursed for several months without getting any better. When at last the girl understood that her case was hopeless she went home to her mother, who lived in a little house of her own in a suburban street. Now she was confined to her bed in a narrow room-the very same room she had occupied as child and young girl—and was awaiting death.

Her mother sat sorrowful at her bedside, but so anxious was she to bestow ah the care she could on nursing her daughter, that she gave herself no time to weep. A Sister, who had been the sick girl's colleague in the slum work, stood by the foot of the bed weeping silently. Her gaze hung with tenderest love on the face of the dying girl, and when the tears gathered in her eyes she hastily wiped them away. On a small uncomfortable chair, which the invalid so much prized that she had brought it with her when she moved, sat a stoutly built woman, with a big " F " embroidered on the collar of her dress. She had been offered another chair, but she insisted on sitting on the rickety one—as a mark of respect, as. it were, to the sick girl.

It was no ordinary day, this, but New Year's Eve ! The sky without hung grey and heavy, and so long as one sat indoors one fancied that the weather must be rough and chilly, but, once out in the air, one found that it was surprisingly mild and balmy. The ground lay black—without snow; now and again a snowflake fell, but it melted at once. Wind and snow seemed to think it not worth while setting to work to make a pother in the Old Year, but much preferred to husband their strength for the New Year that was fast approaching.

It was much the same with men as with the weather. They, too, seemed unable to set about anything. There was no movement without nor any work-within. Right opposite the house where the woman lay dying was a plot of land where piles were being driven in for a building. A few labourers had come there that morning, had drawn up the great pile-driver, accompanied by the usual noisy song, and had let it drop again. They did not stick long at their work, but soon tired of it, and went their way.

It was just the same with everything else. A few women had hurried by with their baskets to make purchases for the holiday. The traffic had continued for a while, but soon stopped. Children who had been out playing in the street were summoned home to put on their best clothes— and, after that, they had to stay indoors! Carthorses were driven past, to be stabled far away in the suburb, to rest for the next twenty-four hours. The longer the day advanced the quieter everything grew, and the cessation of every sort of noise was felt as a relief.

"It is well that she should die thus, on a holiday,'' said the mother. "Soon there will be no sounds from without to disturb her."

The sick girl. had been lying unconscious ever since morning, and the three who were gathered round her bed could say anything without her: hearing them. In spite of this, however, it was easy to perceive that she was not lying in a state of dull torpor—her countenance had changed its expression many times in the course of the forenoon. It had looked astonished and anxious; sometimes it had an imploring; at other times a cruelly tortured expression. Now for a long time it had been marked by a violent resentment, that marred and beautified it at the same time.

The little Slum-Sister had become so unlike herself that her companion, who was standing at the foot of the bed, stooped down to the other Salvationist, and whispered:

" Look, Captain, Sister Edith is getting so beautiful; she looks like a queen."

The stoutly-built woman got up from the low chair so as to get a better look at the invalid. Assuredly never before had she seen the little sister without the meek and cheerful mien which she had retained up to the last, however tired and ill she might feel. So surprised was the Captain at the change in the girl's appearance that she did not resume her seat, but remained standing.

By an impatient movement the little Sister had thrown herself so high on the pillow that she was sitting half upright in the bed. An expression of indescribable majesty hovered over her brow, and, though her mouth did not move, she looked as if words of chiding and contempt were issuing from her lips.

The mother looked up: at the two wondering women. "She has been like this on other days as well," she remarked. "Was it not about this time of day that she used to go on her rounds ? "

The Slum-Sister glanced at the patient's battered little watch that ticked on the table by the bedside.

"Yes," she admitted," it was at this time she used to seek the outcasts."

She stopped abruptly and put her handkerchief, to her eyes whenever she tried to say something about the invalid she found it difficult not to burst out weeping.

The mother took one of her daughter's hard little hands into her own, and stroked it.

"She has, I suppose, had far too hard a task in helping them to keep their dens clean, and warning them against their vicious habits," she said, with suppressed resentment in her voice. "When you have a too exacting task, it's hard to keep your thoughts from it. She fancies she is once more on her rounds, visiting them."

"That may sometimes be the case with a work one has loved too much," remarked the Captain quietly.

They noticed how the patient's eyebrows were raised and lowered till the wrinkle between them became deeper and deeper, and how the upper lip curved upwards. They waited, only for the eyes to open and. shoot a glance of withering scorn.

"She looks like an avenging angel!" cried the Salvationist Captain in an excited tone.

"What can they be about in the slums this particular day?" wondered her companion, as she pushed past the others, so that she could stroke the dying girl's forehead. "Sister Edith, don't worry yourself about them any more," she went on, and stroked her once again. "Sister Edith, you have done enough for them."

These words seemed to have power to release the sick girl from the vision that obsessed her; her features lost their look of tension, of majestic wrath. The gentle and suffering expression, which was her usual one since her illness, returned.

She opened her eyes, and, on seeing her companion bending over her, she laid her hand on the latter's arm, and tried to draw, her down to her.

The Sister could hardly guess the meaning of this gentle touch, but she understood the imploring look in the eyes, and bent down to the sick girl's lips.

"David Holm!" whispered the dying girl.

The Sister shook, her head, doubting if she had heard accurately.

The sick girl tried her hardest to make her meaning clear. She uttered the words with a pause between each syllable.

"Send—for—Da—vid—Holm."

She gazed into the Sister's eyes until she was certain that her friend had caught her meaning. This done, she lay down again to rest, and a couple of minutes afterwards she was off again, occupied just as before, mentally present at some hideous scene which filled her soul with wrath and anguish.

The Sister rose from her stooping position. She had ceased weeping, and was seized by a strong emotion that had driven away her tears.

"She wants us to send for David Holm!"

It seemed to be something quite awful that the patient longed for—the big, coarse Salvationist Captain was as much agitated as her companion.

"David Holm!" she repeated. "That's hardly possible, I suppose; nobody would allow David Holm to approach anyone who was dying."

The girl's mother had sat down and seen how her daughter's countenance was working up to that judicial expression of indignation. She now turned to the two embarrassed women for an explanation.

"Sister Edith wants us to send for David Holm," explained the Salvationist Captain, "but we don't know if that is fit and proper."

"David Holm? " asked the girl's mother doubtfully. "Who is he? "

"He is one of those with whom Sister Edith has had a lot of trouble in the slums, but the Lord has not vouchsafed to her to gain any influence over him."

"Perhaps it is God's purpose, Captain," said the Sister hesitatingly, "to work upon him in these her last moments."

The girl's mother looked at her indignantly. " You have had the upper hand with my daughter, you know, as long as she had a spark of-life left. Let me have her to myself now that she is on the point of death."

That settled the matter. The Sister resumed her place at the foot of the bed; the Salvationist sat down on the little chair, shut her eyes, and was quickly absorbed in low murmured prayer. The ' others caught a word or two—she was beseeching God that the young Sister's soul should be suffered to depart in peace from this life, without being troubled and disturbed any more by the duties and cares which belong to this world of trials and tribulations.

Whilst absorbed in prayer she was aroused by the Sister laying a hand on her shoulder. She opened her eyes suddenly.

The sick girl had recovered consciousness once more, but she was not looking so meek and humble as on the last occasion ; something of that threatening storm-cloud still lingered upon her brow.

The Sister stooped over her, and heard clearly enough the reproachful. question:

"Sister Mary, have you sent for David Holm?"

It was likely enough that the others would be prepared to make excuses, but something the woman read in the poor girl's eyes silenced her. "I will fetch him to you, Sister Edith," she promised, and turned apologetically to the mother. " I have never said no to anything Sister Edith has asked me. How can I do so to-day ?"

The girl shut her eyes with a sigh-of relief, and the Sister quitted the little room. "Then all was hushed again. The dying girl's chest laboured more painfully, and. her mother drew nearer to the bed, as though anxious to shield her daughter from death.

A few seconds afterwards the girl looked up. She had the same impatient expression as before, but when she saw that "her companion's seat was empty, she realised that her wish was about to be gratified, and her face assumed a gentler expression. She made no attempt to speak, but, oh the other hand, she did not sink into a coma, but kept awake. An outer door opened, and she sat up in bed. Directly afterwards the Sister looked in at the bedroom door, which she opened as narrowly as possible.

"I dare not come in," she said, " I'm too cold. Captain Andersson, be kind enough to come here for a moment." She noticed at once how expectantly the sick girl's eyes were fixed on her. " I've not been able to find him, yet, Edith," she added, " but I met Gustavsson and two others of ours, and they promised me to have him found. Sister Edith, Gustavsson will be sure to bring him to you if it is at all possible."

She had hardly finished speaking before the dying girl shut her eyes and relapsed into that mood of inward contemplation which had obsessed her all that day.

"She sees him right enough," remarked the Sister. Her voice had in it a ring of indignation, but she corrected herself immediately. "Alleluia ! it's no misfortune that God's will should be done."

She quietly retired into the outer room, followed by the Salvationist Captain.

There stood a woman who could hardly have been more than thirty years old, but who had so grey and almost savagely lined a complexion, such scanty hair and so shrunken a figure, that many an old woman was not so ill-favoured in these respects. Moreover, she was so miserably clad that you might have fancied that she had put on some particularly wretched rags for the purpose of going out begging.

The Salvationist glanced at this woman with a feeling of fast rising anguish. It was not her sorry clothes or her premature old age that was the worst point about her, but the steely rigidity of her features. It was a human being which moved and walked or stood, but who seemed absolutely ignorant as to where she was. She had apparently suffered so dreadfully that her soul had reached a crisis; she might the next moment go raving mad.

"This," explained the Sister, " is David Holm's wife. I found her like this when I reached her house to fetch the man here. He had gone out, and she was pacing there all alone, unable to answer a word to my questions. I dared not leave her' by herself, so I brought her with me here."

"Is this David Holm's wife? exclaimed the Salvationist Captain. "I have certainly seen her before, though I can't identify her. What can have happened to her?"

"It's clear enough what has occurred," replied the Sister sharply, as if seized by an impatient rage; "it's her husband who'is torturing the life out of her."

The Salvationist scrutinised the woman again and again. Her eyes were bulging out of their sockets and their pupils were staring fixedly before her; two of her fingers were incessantly writhing about each other, and time after time a slight shiver ran over her lips.

"What has he done to her?" she wondered.

"I don't know. She could not answer my questions, but sat shivering like this when I came. The children were out, and there was no one to ask. O Lord God, that this should happen on this very day. How can I manage to look after her now, when I want to think of nobody but Sister Edith ? "

"The fellow has been beating her, I suppose."

There must have been something far worse. I've seen plenty of women who have been beaten, but they were, never like this. No, it has been something a great deal worse," the Sister exclaimed, with increasing horror. " We saw, you know, from Sister Edith's face that something terrible had happened."

"Yes," cried the Salvationist Captain ; " now we can understand. what it was that worried her. Thank and praise God that Sister Edith did see, so that you reached there in time, Sister Mary. Thank the Lord and praise Him ! It is certainly His purpose that we should succeed in saving the poor woman's reason."

"But what am I to-do with her ? She follows me when I take her hand, but does not understand a word I say. Her soul has taken flight; how can we recapture it ? I've no influence over her but perhaps you will succeed better, Captain Andersson ?"

The heavily built Salvationist took the poor woman's hand, and spoke to her in a. gentle, but-at the same time stern, voice. Not a glimmer'of understanding, however, was discernible on the woman's countenance.

In the middle of these useless efforts Edith's mother put her head in at the door.

"Edith is getting restless," she warned them; " you had better'come in."

Both the Salvationists hurried into the little bedroom. Edith was tossing backwards and forwards on her bed; but her restlessness seemed rather to have been due to something weighing on. her mind than to actual physical pain. She became quiet directly she saw her two friends in thieir usual places, and shut her eyes.

The Salvationist gave the Sister a sign to remain by the patient, but she herself got up, intending to steal noiselessly out again. At that moment the door opened and David Holm's wife walked in.

She went up to the bed, and stood there with staring, dazed eyes, shivering as before, and twitching her bony fingers till the joints cracked.

It was long before anyone noticed any signs that she was aware of what she saw, but the steeliness of her glance gradually relaxed; she leaned forward, and drew nearer and nearer to the face of the dying girl.

Something defiant and awful passed over the wretched woman ; her fingers clasped and unclasped. The two Salvationists jumped up, in fear that she was about to fling herself on Edith.

The little Slum-Sister opened her eyes, gazed at the dreadful, half-insane creature before her, sat up in bed, and flung her arms around her. She drew the woman towards her with all the strength which she could muster, and kissed her forehead, cheeks, and lips, whispering meanwhile:

"Ah, poor Mrs. Holm ! Poor Mrs. Holm ! "

At first the broken victim of misfortune seemed inclined to draw back, but all at once a shiver passed through her body; she burst into sobs, and fell on her knees beside the bed, her head pressed against Edith's cheek.

"She is weeping, Sister Mary, she is weeping," whispered the Salvationist; " she will not go mad now."

The Sister's hand clutched tightly her teardrenched handkerchief as she mopped her eyes in a desperate effort to steady her voice. " Captain, it's Sister Edith alone who can work such marvels. Oh ! what will become of us when she is gone ? "

The next moment they caught an imploring glance from Edith's mother.

"Yes, certainly," said the Salvationist, with quick understanding; " it would never do for the husband to come and find her here. No, Sister Mary, you must remain with your friend," she went on, when the Sister was about to leave the room. " I will look after this other one."