The Troll Garden and Selected Stories Read online

charge for it. He had hung those clothes in his shanty two months

  ago and had never put them on, partly from fear of ridicule, partly

  from discouragement, and partly because there was something in his

  own soul that revolted at the littleness of the device.

  Lena was at home just at this time. Work was slack in the

  laundry and Mary had not been well, so Lena stayed at home, glad

  enough to get an opportunity to torment Canute once more.

  She was washing in the side kitchen, singing loudly as

  she worked. Mary was on her knees, blacking the stove and scolding

  violently about the young man who was coming out from town that

  night. The young man had committed the fatal error of laughing at

  Mary's ceaseless babble and had never been forgiven.

  "He is no good, and you will come to a bad end by running with

  him! I do not see why a daughter of mine should act so. I do not

  see why the Lord should visit such a punishment upon me as to give

  me such a daughter. There are plenty of good men you can marry."

  Lena tossed her head and answered curtly, "I don't happen to

  want to marry any man right away, and so long as Dick dresses nice

  and has plenty of money to spend, there is no harm in my going with

  him."

  "Money to spend? Yes, and that is all he does with it I'll be

  bound. You think it very fine now, but you will change your tune

  when you have been married five years and see your children running

  naked and your cupboard empty. Did Anne Hermanson come to any good

  end by marrying a town man?"

  "I don't know anything about Anne Hermanson, but I know any of

  the laundry girls would have Dick quick enough if they could get

  him."

  "Yes, and a nice lot of store clothes huzzies you are too. Now

  there is Canuteson who has an 'eighty' proved up and fifty head

  of cattle and--"

  "And hair that ain't been cut since he was a baby, and a big

  dirty beard, and he wears overalls on Sundays, and drinks like a

  pig. Besides he will keep. I can have all the fun I want, and

  when I am old and ugly like you he can have me and take care of me.

  The Lord knows there ain't nobody else going to marry him."

  Canute drew his hand back from the latch as though it were red

  hot. He was not the kind of man to make a good eavesdropper, and

  he wished he had knocked sooner. He pulled himself together and

  struck the door like a battering ram. Mary jumped and opened it

  with a screech.

  "God! Canute, how you scared us! I thought it was crazy Lou--

  he has been tearing around the neighborhood trying to convert

  folks. I am afraid as death of him. He ought to be sent off, I

  think. He is just as liable as not to kill us all, or burn

  the barn, or poison the dogs. He has been worrying even the poor

  minister to death, and he laid up with the rheumatism, too! Did

  you notice that he was too sick to preach last Sunday? But don't

  stand there in the cold, come in. Yensen isn't here, but he just

  went over to Sorenson's for the mail; he won't be gone long. Walk

  right in the other room and sit down."

  Canute followed her, looking steadily in front of him and not

  noticing Lena as he passed her. But Lena's vanity would not allow

  him to pass unmolested. She took the wet sheet she was wringing

  out and cracked him across the face with it, and ran giggling to

  the other side of the room. The blow stung his cheeks and the

  soapy water flew in his eves, and he involuntarily began rubbing

  them with his hands. Lena giggled with delight at his

  discomfiture, and the wrath in Canute's face grew blacker than

  ever. A big man humiliated is vastly more undignified than a

  little one. He forgot the sting of his face in the bitter

  consciousness that he had made a fool of himself He stumbled

  blindly into the living room, knocking his head against the door

  jamb because he forgot to stoop. He dropped into a chair behind

  the stove, thrusting his big feet back helplessly on either side of

  him.

  Ole was a long time in coming, and Canute sat there, still and

  silent, with his hands clenched on his knees, and the skin of his

  face seemed to have shriveled up into little wrinkles that trembled

  when he lowered his brows. His life had been one long lethargy of

  solitude and alcohol, but now he was awakening, and it was as when

  the dumb stagnant heat of summer breaks out into thunder.

  When Ole came staggering in, heavy with liquor, Canute rose at

  once.

  "Yensen," he said quietly, "I have come to see if you will let

  me marry your daughter today."

  "Today!" gasped Ole.

  "Yes, I will not wait until tomorrow. I am tired of living alone."

  Ole braced his staggering knees against the bedstead, and

  stammered eloquently: "Do you think I will marry my daughter to a

  drunkard? a man who drinks raw alcohol? a man who sleeps with

  rattle snakes? Get out of my house or I will kick you out

  for your impudence." And Ole began looking anxiously for his feet.

  Canute answered not a word, but he put on his hat and went out

  into the kitchen. He went up to Lena and said without looking at

  her, "Get your things on and come with me!"

  The tones of his voice startled her, and she said angrily,

  dropping the soap, "Are you drunk?"

  "If you do not come with me, I will take you--you had better

  come," said Canute quietly.

  She lifted a sheet to strike him, but he caught her arm

  roughly and wrenched the sheet from her. He turned to the wall and

  took down a hood and shawl that hung there, and began wrapping her

  up. Lena scratched and fought like a wild thing. Ole stood in the

  door, cursing, and Mary howled and screeched at the top of her

  voice. As for Canute, he lifted the girl in his arms and went out

  of the house. She kicked and struggled, but the helpless wailing

  of Mary and Ole soon died away in the distance, and her face was

  held down tightly on Canute's shoulder so that she could not see

  whither he was taking her. She was conscious only of the north

  wind whistling in her ears, and of rapid steady motion and of a

  great breast that heaved beneath her in quick, irregular breaths.

  The harder she struggled the tighter those iron arms that had held

  the heels of horses crushed about her, until she felt as if they

  would crush the breath from her, and lay still with fear. Canute

  was striding across the level fields at a pace at which man never

  went before, drawing the stinging north winds into his lungs in

  great gulps. He walked with his eyes half closed and looking

  straight in front of him, only lowering them when he bent his head

  to blow away the snow flakes that settled on her hair. So it was

  that Canute took her to his home, even as his bearded barbarian

  ancestors took the fair frivolous women of the South in their hairy

  arms and bore them down to their war ships. For ever and anon the

  soul becomes weary of the conventions that are not of it, and with

  a single stroke shatters the civilized lies with which it is unabl
e

  to cope, and the strong arm reaches out and takes by force what it

  cannot win by cunning.

  When Canute reached his shanty he placed the girl upon a

  chair, where she sat sobbing. He stayed only a few minutes. He

  filled the stove with wood and lit the lamp, drank a huge swallow

  of alcohol and put the bottle in his pocket. He paused a moment,

  staring heavily at the weeping girl, then he went off and locked

  the door and disappeared in the gathering gloom of the night.

  Wrapped in flannels and soaked with turpentine, the little

  Norwegian preacher sat reading his Bible, when he heard a

  thundering knock at his door, and Canute entered, covered with snow

  and his beard frozen fast to his coat.

  "Come in, Canute, you must be frozen," said the little man,

  shoving a chair towards his visitor.

  Canute remained standing with his hat on and said quietly, "I

  want you to come over to my house tonight to marry me to Lena

  Yensen."

  "Have you got a license, Canute?"

  "No, I don't want a license. I want to be married."

  "But I can't marry you without a license, man. it would not be

  legal."

  A dangerous light came in the big Norwegian's eye. "I want

  you to come over to my house to marry me to Lena Yensen."

  "No, I can't, it would kill an ox to go out in a storm like

  this, and my rheumatism is bad tonight."

  "Then if you will not go I must take you," said Canute with a

  sigh.

  He took down the preacher's bearskin coat and bade him put it

  on while he hitched up his buggy. He went out and closed the door

  softly after him. Presently he returned and found the frightened

  minister crouching before the fire with his coat lying beside him.

  Canute helped him put it on and gently wrapped his head in his big

  muffler. Then he picked him up and carried him out and placed him

  in his buggy. As he tucked the buffalo robes around him be said:

  "Your horse is old, he might flounder or lose his way in this

  storm. I will lead him."

  The minister took the reins feebly in his hands and sat

  shivering with the cold. Sometimes when there was a lull in the

  wind, he could see the horse struggling through the snow with

  the man plodding steadily beside him. Again the blowing snow would

  hide them from him altogether. He had no idea where they were or

  what direction they were going. He felt as though he were being

  whirled away in the heart of the storm, and he said all the prayers

  he knew. But at last the long four miles were over, and Canute set

  him down in the snow while he unlocked the door. He saw the bride

  sitting by the fire with her eyes red and swollen as though she had

  been weeping. Canute placed a huge chair for him, and said

  roughly,--

  "Warm yourself."

  Lena began to cry and moan afresh, begging the minister to

  take her home. He looked helplessly at Canute. Canute said

  simply,

  "If you are warm now, you can marry us."

  "My daughter, do you take this step of your own free will?"

  asked the minister in a trembling voice.

  "No, sir, I don't, and it is disgraceful he should force me

  into it! I won't marry him."

  "Then, Canute, I cannot marry you," said the minister,

  standing as straight as his rheumatic limbs would let him.

  "Are you ready to marry us now, sir?" said Canute, laying one

  iron hand on his stooped shoulder. The little preacher was a good

  man, but like most men of weak body he was a coward and had a

  horror of physical suffering, although he had known so much of it.

  So with many qualms of conscience he began to repeat the marriage

  service. Lena sat sullenly in her chair, staring at the fire.

  Canute stood beside her, listening with his head bent reverently

  and his hands folded on his breast. When the little man had prayed

  and said amen, Canute began bundling him up again.

  "I will take you home, now," he said as he carried him out and

  placed him in his buggy, and started off with him through the fury

  of the storm, floundering among the snow drifts that brought even

  the giant himself to his knees.

  After she was left alone, Lena soon ceased weeping. She was

  not of a particularly sensitive temperament, and had little

  pride beyond that of vanity. After the first bitter anger wore

  itself out, she felt nothing more than a healthy sense of

  humiliation and defeat. She had no inclination to run away, for

  she was married now, and in her eyes that was final and all

  rebellion was useless. She knew nothing about a license, but she

  knew that a preacher married folks. She consoled herself by

  thinking that she had always intended to marry Canute someday,

  anyway.

  She grew tired of crying and looking into the fire, so she got

  up and began to look about her. She had heard queer tales about

  the inside of Canute's shanty, and her curiosity soon got the

  better of her rage. One of the first things she noticed was the

  new black suit of clothes hanging on the wall. She was dull, but

  it did not take a vain woman long to interpret anything so

  decidedly flattering, and she was pleased in spite of herself. As

  she looked through the cupboard, the general air of neglect and

  discomfort made her pity the man who lived there.

  "Poor fellow, no wonder he wants to get married to get

  somebody to wash up his dishes. Batchin's pretty hard on a man."

  It is easy to pity when once one's vanity has been tickled.

  She looked at the windowsill and gave a little shudder and wondered

  if the man were crazy. Then she sat down again and sat a long time

  wondering what her Dick and Ole would do.

  "It is queer Dick didn't come right over after me. He surely

  came, for he would have left town before the storm began and he

  might just as well come right on as go back. If he'd hurried he

  would have gotten here before the preacher came. I suppose he was

  afraid to come, for he knew Canuteson could pound him to jelly, the

  coward!" Her eyes flashed angrily.

  The weary hours wore on and Lena began to grow horribly

  lonesome. It was an uncanny night and this was an uncanny place to

  be in. She could hear the coyotes howling hungrily a little way

  from the cabin, and more terrible still were all the unknown noises

  of the storm. She remembered the tales they told of the big log

  overhead and she was afraid of those snaky things on the

  windowsills. She remembered the man who had been killed in the

  draw, and she wondered what she would do if she saw crazy Lou's

  white face glaring into the window. The rattling of the door

  became unbearable, she thought the latch must be loose and took the

  lamp to look at it. Then for the first time she saw the ugly brown

  snake skins whose death rattle sounded every time the wind jarred

  the door.

  "Canute, Canute!" she screamed in terror.

  Outside the door she heard a heavy sound as of a big dog

  getting up and shaking himself. The door opened and Canute stood


  before her, white as a snow drift.

  "What is it?" he asked kindly.

  "I am cold," she faltered.

  He went out and got an armful of wood and a basket of cobs and

  filled the stove. Then he went out and lay in the snow before the

  door. Presently he heard her calling again.

  "What is it?" he said, sitting up.

  "I'm so lonesome, I'm afraid to stay in here all alone."

  "I will go over and get your mother." And he got up.

  "She won't come."

  "I'll bring her," said Canute grimly.

  "No, no. I don't want her, she will scold all the time."

  "Well, I will bring your father."

  She spoke again and it seemed as though her mouth was close up

  to the key-hole. She spoke lower than he had ever heard her speak

  before, so low that he had to put his ear up to the lock to hear

  her.

  "I don't want him either, Canute,--I'd rather have you."

  For a moment she heard no noise at all, then something like a

  groan. With a cry of fear she opened the door, and saw Canute

  stretched in the snow at her feet, his face in his hands, sobbing

  on the doorstep.

  Eric Hermannson's Soul

  It was a great night at the Lone Star schoolhouse--a night

  when the Spirit was present with power and when God was very near

  to man. So it seemed to Asa Skinner, servant of God and Free

  Gospeller. The schoolhouse was crowded with the saved and

  sanctified, robust men and women, trembling and quailing before the

  power of some mysterious psychic force. Here and there among this

  cowering, sweating multitude crouched some poor wretch who had felt

  the pangs of an awakened conscience, but had not yet experienced

  that complete divestment of reason, that frenzy born of a

  convulsion of the mind, which, in the parlance of the Free

  Gospellers, is termed "the Light." On the floor before the

  mourners' bench lay the unconscious figure of a man in whom

  outraged nature had sought her last resort. This "trance" state

  is the highest evidence of grace among the Free Gospellers, and

  indicates a close walking with God.

  Before the desk stood Asa Skinner, shouting of the mercy and

  vengeance of God, and in his eyes shone a terrible earnestness, an

  almost prophetic flame. Asa was a converted train gambler who used

  to run between Omaha and Denver. He was a man made for the

  extremes of life; from the most debauched of men he had become the

  most ascetic. His was a bestial face, a. face that bore the stamp

  of Nature's eternal injustice. The forehead was low, projecting

  over the eyes, and the sandy hair was plastered down over it and

  then brushed back at an abrupt right angle. The chin was heavy,

  the nostrils were low and wide, and the lower lip hung loosely

  except in his moments of spasmodic earnestness, when it shut like

  a steel trap. Yet about those coarse features there were deep,

  rugged furrows, the scars of many a hand-to-hand struggle with the

  weakness of the flesh, and about that drooping lip were sharp,

  strenuous lines that had conquered it and taught it to pray. Over

  those seamed cheeks there was a certain pallor, a greyness caught

  from many a vigil. It was as though, after Nature had done her

  worst with that face, some fine chisel had gone over it, chastening

  and almost transfiguring it. Tonight, as his muscles twitched with

  emotion, and the perspiration dropped from his hair and chin, there

  was a certain convincing power in the man. For Asa Skinner was a

  man possessed of a belief, of that sentiment of the sublime before

  which all inequalities are leveled, that transport of conviction

  which seems superior to all laws of condition, under which

  debauchees have become martyrs; which made a tinker an artist and

  a camel-driver the founder of an empire. This was with Asa Skinner

  tonight, as he stood proclaiming the vengeance of God.