THE ACCUSATION
Everyone in Lövdala was so consumed with curiosity that they could
scarcely contain themselves. For just think, the foreman of Henriksberg
had come driving up with a woman no one knew, and instead of going
into the drawing-room as other visitors used to do, they had gone to
the Pastor’s study and stayed there talking alone with him for several
hours. Neither the Pastor’s wife nor his daughter nor any of the maids
could solve the riddle of why they had come. The housemaid who helped
them out of the sledge had noticed that they both looked serious and
troubled, but that was all the information she could give.
The Pastor’s wife had tried to sit in the parlour with her work, for
this room adjoined the Pastor’s, and if she could have stayed there she
would soon have found out the visitors’ errand. But she had not been
seated two minutes before the Pastor peeped out of his door and begged
her to go somewhere else. What they were talking about in his study she
should hear at the proper time from his own lips.
The strangers had come so early in the afternoon that the Pastor’s
wife was uneasy lest they had not dined. So she sent in the housemaid
to ask if she should get some dinner ready, but the maid brought back
word that they wanted nothing. Whilst she had been in the room no one
had spoken, so all she could report was that the woman had sat there
drying her eyes as though she had been crying.
The man who had driven them over was invited into the kitchen to have a
meal. He was very glad to tell all he knew, which however was not much.
He had never set eyes on the woman until the evening before, when she
had walked down to Henriksberg and asked to see the foreman. Early this
morning the foreman had come down himself to the stable and ordered
a sledge for Lövdala, but he was a man who would be silent for weeks
together and not one word had he uttered all the time they were driving
over. The Pastor’s wife had not been able to sit quietly at her work,
but had done nothing but walk from one room to another ever since the
strangers had entered the house. Once she took Little-Maid into the
drawing-room to ask her if she had told anyone she was teaching her to
read and write.
Not that it mattered so much if she had. But Fru Raklitz was so looking
forward to telling the Pastor that she could read his books, if only
Little-Maid could keep the secret a little longer. Little-Maid assured
her that she had said nothing. She thought to herself that she had
never had the least desire to tell either the Pastor or anyone else
about the piece of writing. There was something else far harder not to
speak about, for she could not understand why Mamsell Maia Lisa had so
strictly forbidden her to tell the Pastor how her stepmother treated
her. What would it matter if he should find out what sort of evil
spirit he had for a wife?
Maia Lisa was the least curious of all. Lately her soul had seemed
almost paralysed. She could be neither glad nor sorry, and cared
nothing what happened to her. She fancied her stepmother would never
cease tormenting her until she lay on a bed of sickness. Not that that
mattered much. And least of all did she dread the thought of death.
It would be but a beautiful, quiet rest. She was sitting at her loom
when Little-Maid came in to tell her that the Henriksberg foreman had
come to Lövdala, and she only stopped her work for a moment. “The
Henriksberg foreman”--how unfamiliar the name sounded. Why should his
coming matter to her? If it had been in the winter she would have
expected everything from it, but now....
At five o’clock the Pastor rang his bell and asked for a tray of bread
and butter and three glasses of milk to be taken into the parlour. As
he had particularly said three glasses his wife understood that he did
not wish for her company, so she sat sewing in the drawing-room until
she heard her husband and his visitors go into the parlour. Then she
put down her work and went into the kitchen.
“Come with me,” she said to Little-Maid. “I must have the Pastor’s
best clothes to get them brushed, for it is Sunday to-morrow, but I
have not been able to go into his room. We must try, if we can manage
it, now whilst they are eating their supper.” They crossed the hall on
tiptoe, and Fru Raklitz opened the door of the Pastor’s room so softly
that it could not possibly disturb those others who were sitting in the
parlour. Then she opened the wardrobe door just as cautiously.
“Now get in there,” she whispered to Little-Maid; “but do be quiet.”
Little-Maid got into the cupboard and in a second the Pastor’s wife
had shut the door. “Now they are coming. You must just stay where you
are for a little,” she whispered through the crack of the door. And
Little-Maid heard how she crept away. But if the Pastor’s wife had
contrived to shut Little-Maid in the cupboard to find out what the
strangers had come for, she had her trouble for nothing. For now the
Pastor sent both for her and his daughter, and even for old Fru Beata
from the brewhouse-room.
When they came in, the Henriksberg foreman was standing with his arms
crossed, leaning against the Pastor’s great bookcase, and the woman
he had brought with him was sitting on the little corner sofa. She
was young, and would have been good-looking if her face had not been
so flushed and tear-stained. As each one entered the Pastor got up
and introduced the strangers. This, he said, was the wife of Pastor
Liliecrona of Finnerud, and that was her brother-in-law, Foreman
Liliecrona of the Henriksberg ironworks. Nothing more was said until
the Pastor’s wife and Fru Beata had seated themselves in the Pastor’s
two great high-backed chairs, and Maia Lisa had taken her place on a
stool close to the writing-table, where she had sat in bygone days
whenever she came to her father’s room.
They all felt a storm was brewing, but no one knew on whom it was to
burst until the Pastor directly addressed his daughter. “No doubt you
already know all about Fru Pastor Liliecrona who is sitting here now?”
he said.
Maia Lisa kept her eyes cast down, for she did not dare to look at
her father. No sooner had she entered the room than she noticed
that something terrible had happened to him. “Now,” thought she,
“dear father’s death-blow has come.” His face was grey and he panted
heavily between every word he uttered. Her anxiety was so intense that
paralysis and indifference had taken flight at once. Her hands began to
tremble and she clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering. She
expected nothing less than that he would have a stroke and fall down
dead before her eyes. But the Pastor sat there waiting for her answer,
and at last she so far mastered her fright as to be able to say in a
fairly calm voice: “Dear Father, I have never seen Fru Pastor before
to-day. I do not understand what dear father means.”
Her father shrugged his shoulders. Perhaps she would understand better
if he informed her that Fru Pastor was the lady who had for several
years been Pastor Liliecrona’s housekeeper? There was something strange
in the Pastor’s voice, a note of anger and contempt. There was, too,
a threatening frown on his brow, and one flush after another flamed
across his face. Maia Lisa saw that something had happened which made
her father not only very unhappy, but very angry as well. And although
she could in no wise imagine how such a thing was possible, yet she
had to confess to herself that his anger was directed against herself.
Almost unconsciously she got up from her little stool and stood
straight and slim in front of her father to defend herself more ably.
“Dear Father, no doubt, can see that I am no wiser than before.”
The Pastor looked as though he had not expected such obstinacy. He
had, of course, no doubt that she knew the whole story, but since
she wished to hear it again he had no objection to telling it from
his point of view. Possibly her aunt in Svanskog had not given her
an accurate account. Maia Lisa ventured to interrupt her father. Her
aunt in Svanskog had talked a good deal of Pastor Liliecrona, but had
not mentioned one single word about his housekeeper. The Pastor waved
the interruption impatiently aside. It was all one whether she had
heard the gossip from her aunt or from someone else. No doubt from
some woman or other, for he knew perfectly well that they were always
the most spiteful to one another. If a man had chanced to speak of
the matter he would at the same time have reminded her that before
she judged her neighbour she must put herself in his place. How many
of those who rejoiced that Pastor Liliecrona had stayed long amongst
the Finns, spending his strength for their salvation, had pictured to
themselves what sort of a life he had up there! The Pastor himself had
never known until to-day that he had been living in a native hut with
one room only, and that his stipend was barely one hundred thalers.
What a labour for whoever managed his house to keep the wolf from the
door even! She who was sitting on the sofa there had not only woven
his clothes, but made them as well. She had taken his cows and sheep
to their forest pastures, and all the years she had served him she had
done far more for him than any spoilt fine young lady could ever dream
of. She, indeed, could write to her credit, and hers alone, that Pastor
Liliecrona had been able to carry on his good work there.
The Pastor’s daughter felt that she too was beginning to feel a little
annoyed as well as the Pastor. Why, indeed, was dear father angry? Did
he think she had tried to beguile Pastor Liliecrona when they chanced
to meet in Svanskog? Surely there was no sin in speaking to him! But
she kept her words in check, and only begged her father to believe that
she had never heard a word of all this. The Pastor impatiently fingered
a little crushed note lying on the writing-table in front of him. It
was certainly remarkable, he said, that she had got to know of the
relationship between Pastor Liliecrona and his housekeeper, when it had
been kept such a secret that even his brother was entirely ignorant of
it until after their marriage. But when she had managed to find it out,
how could she have been so hasty in passing judgment on it? Could she
not see that the other had the most sacred rights? Even if she were not
yet his lawful wife, even if she were of lower rank, ought her long
devotion, her great self-sacrifice, to have been misunderstood even by
the most hard-hearted?
The Pastor’s daughter once more begged him to excuse her, but she
really did not understand what her fault had been. It was evident
how terribly vexed the Pastor was at being forced to give so many
explanations, and great drops of sweat stood out upon his brow.
If it were really any news to her, he went on, he would inform her that
many years ago Pastor Liliecrona had promised marriage to the woman who
was now his wife. It had been arranged that the marriage should take
place as soon as he was in a position to keep a wife in comfort and not
be obliged to let her lead a servant’s life. Nor had there ever been
the least doubt that he would keep his promise until just after this
Christmas. Pastor Liliecrona had then gone a little journey, to meet
his brother, it was said. He had gone no farther than Svanskog inn, but
on his return he had been utterly changed. He was restless and gloomy,
and no longer talked of their marriage. So they made inquiries as to
whom he had met in Svanskog. (And with that he turned and faced Maia
Lisa.) “But perhaps you have no idea either whom he met?”
“Dear Father, I know he met me. Pastor Liliecrona talked to me all day,
very simply and naturally, just like a kind brother.”
The Pastor made a gesture of annoyance again as if in despair at her
stubbornness.
“It may be true enough that Pastor Liliecrona did not make love to you
that day, but you cannot have been in any doubt as to his feelings.
Otherwise you would certainly not have been bold enough to send this
note.”
Maia Lisa broke in without the least ceremony. “Dear Father, I have
never written to Pastor Liliecrona. If Fru Pastor....”
“There is no question of writing to Pastor Liliecrona, but of a note to
his housekeeper.”
“Oh, indeed, to his housekeeper!” And Maia Lisa’s voice was now every
whit as angry and contemptuous as her father’s. “Oh, indeed, dear
Father has heard that I have written to her, written, I suppose, to ask
her to give up Pastor Liliecrona for my sake?”
The Pastor looked at her coldly. “No doubt you know what you wrote,” he
said. But the Pastor’s daughter was angry now in good earnest. She was
no longer intent on sparing her father, but only on clearing herself,
and she wanted to get to the bottom of the matter. “Dear Father,” she
asked, “is my name written at the foot of this letter?”
“No, there is no name at all, but it was sent to Finnerud with a
message from your aunt in Svanskog that it had come from Lövdala for
Pastor Liliecrona’s housekeeper.” The Pastor was certainly amazed that
Maia Lisa was not overwhelmed by such proof as this, but she simply
asked again:
“Dear Father, tell me what else I have done. It is very amusing to hear
this, and I really cannot guess everything.”
“What else you have done!” And down crashed the Pastor’s fist on the
table. “Is it not enough to have written a letter, to have tried to
entrap a man who belonged to another, to have insulted a woman whose
only fault was her love? What you have done? You have driven this woman
to despair, so that in desperation she committed the most fatal error.
For she went to Karlstad, told the Bishop the whole tale, and begged
for help. Whereupon the Bishop takes her part, and writes to Liliecrona
that now, when he intends to enter on a more important charge, he must
be less easily satisfied with his own conduct. And he gives him to
understand that he cannot be appointed until he has settled his private
affairs in a satisfactory manner. It is true the Bishop has written as
kindly and tactfully as possible, but Pastor Liliecrona is a proud and
hasty man and he has felt shamed and insulted to the last degree. If
nothing had been done in the matter, there was reason to hope that his
natural kindness of heart would have won the day, that he would have
conquered the fleeting passion which had overcome him, and that of his
own free will he would have followed the call of duty. But now, when
he feels himself forced, he grows desperate, and is seized with bitter
hatred for the woman who has such claims upon his affection. At first
he says not a word either of his hatred or of the Bishop’s warning; but
one day, about a month after he had received it, he goes to the stable,
harnesses his horse, drives up to the door, and asks if she will take
a little drive. Up she jumps, snatches up a handkerchief for her head,
and sits down in the sledge just as she is, in her short everyday fur
jacket and her stout shoes. Off goes the sledge, rushing past one or
two big houses, only Finns’ it is true, but she feels ashamed and
proposes getting out and going home. But no, the driver will not stop.
So she submits and they drive into a desolate forest, ever faster and
faster, until she begins to be frightened and once more begs to get
out. Then with an angry look he tells her harshly that she is driving
to her wedding. They are on the way to the Västmarken Parsonage to be
married. She thinks he is joking and sits quiet for a little while, and
then once more begs him to let her get out and go home. With a jerk
the horse is pulled up, and she is told she is at liberty to leave
the sledge if she pleases, but if she does, she may give up all hope
of ever being married. He intends now to go to Västmarken and marry
her, but if she does not seize this opportunity he will never give
her another. When she replies that they cannot possibly be married
until the banns are called, he tells her that has already been done,
without her knowledge, in her native parish, and tells her, too, with
such a terrible face and manner, that in her fright she nearly gets
out. But she bethinks herself that this would be to lose all the joy of
life, and keeps her place. She is full of doubt all the way, knowing
how great the hatred must be that forces her to be married without a
proper wedding-dress. Even in the church before the altar she almost
says ‘No,’ but she will not give up the man she loves to the writer
of that letter, of those abominable lines that have been the cause of
all the misery. No doubt, too, she hopes that his hatred will lessen
in time, and that she will be able to reconcile him and win back his
affection. But she is wrong in this, for she is really hated with a
terrible hatred. Soon she learns that her husband has made up his mind
and declined the valuable living, and she understands that he has done
so to compel her to drag on a life of poverty, for he grudges her any
happiness that might come from a position of comfort and respect.
Nor is this all. She soon notices something far worse, and that is
that he is going to ruin himself in every way. She notices that he is
beginning to drink without any moderation, and, beg and pray as she
may, it is all of no avail. She cannot disguise from herself that life
no longer holds a single joy for him. He pays no heed even to his poor
parishioners; his one idea is to fail utterly, to go to ruin. Think now
how a very fine work is stopped and a very good man turned into a wild
beast! And all this the result of a foolish girl’s thoughtlessness!
Perhaps now she can understand what she has done. Above all, perhaps
she can now understand that she would do well to own that she wrote the
note in the delirium of her foolish love. For if not, then her father
will be forced to believe that she wrote it in a devilish intrigue
to ruin Liliecrona, so that his place in Sjöskoga might be gained by
one to whom she was more nearly related. And then she would never be
forgiven nor be called his daughter any more.”
All the time she stood listening to her father’s words Maia Lisa was
thinking how she could possibly convince him that she had not written
the note. Alas, if on any other occasion she had heard this tale told
with such eloquence, how it would have moved her! But now she could
only think of the injustice done her, and that not by her father alone.
She did not heed the poor wife, but she did think of the man who had
come with her to make the accusation. He, too, believed in her guilt,
believed that she had written to beg for a man who belonged to another.
She turned suddenly from her father and looked at Liliecrona.
His eyes had not been fixed on her, but he started as if he felt her
glance. He had been looking very sad indeed, but now the kindly smile
suddenly passed over his face and he looked at her reassuringly, as at
a child who has played a foolish trick and as though he wanted to ask
her to be comforted, for no great harm was done. But in a second he
looked away again.
She turned impatiently from him, and whilst her father went on
speaking, her eyes sought her grandmother. And Fru Beata’s eyes
met hers very seriously, and with almost the same expression as
Liliecrona’s, an expression plainly saying, “Be sensible now and don’t
be afraid,” and she too looked away again in a second in the same
direction as Liliecrona had done.
Then Maia Lisa looked there too and saw they were both intently
watching her stepmother. Fru Raklitz seemed strangely altered. She
was deathly pale, and her eyes had much the same wild look as on
the morning when Maia Lisa first met her. It was evident that she
was overcome by a terrible fear. For a moment the Pastor’s daughter
wondered if her stepmother had written the note herself, but only for
a moment, for she remembered that Fru Raklitz could not write. Neither
was her fright to be wondered at, for the Pastor’s wrath was quite
unnatural and she had every reason to fear how it might end. It was
really a good thing that Maia Lisa had looked at her stepmother, for
the sight reminded her that she must be careful not to irritate her
father. In perfect silence she listened to the very end, and when he
cried that he would disown her as his daughter, she answered quite
humbly: “Dear father, do as you wish with me. If I may no longer live
under my father’s roof then I must....”
She was interrupted by Fru Pastor Liliecrona, who stepped up to her
quickly, and, as she seized her hand, cried in a tone of misery that
this must be the end of the matter. Neither she nor her brother-in-law
had ever meant any mention to be made of that letter. They had only
shown it to the Pastor to prove that his daughter really loved
Liliecrona. She had come on quite a different errand. She had gone
to Henriksberg yesterday because she was in such despair. She could
not bear Liliecrona to go to ruin on her account, so she had wished
to ask his brother if there were no possibility of his being freed
from her. She wanted to offer him his liberty; she would never come
into his sight again if only she were certain that he could have the
wife he loved. And it was to talk of this that she had come here with
his brother. They did not mean any ill to Mamsell Maia Lisa. All they
wanted was to get her to help them to save the man who was on the road
to ruin.
The Pastor’s daughter turned to her, and in a moment she realised
what a splendid young man Pastor Liliecrona had been and how terribly
unhappy his wife must feel. Her heart once more beat with her usual
gentle kindness, and with a trembling voice she answered: “But alas,
that I could not do. Help him, indeed, if I had the power--but I could
never marry him. He is not the man I love.”
She felt how the hot blood rushed over her face and neck. She had
spoken as if there were someone she did love.
With an impatient gesture her father waved her words aside. “You have
surely not....”
But here he was interrupted by grandmother, who, from her far-away
arm-chair, said: “Dear son, how inconsiderately you treat Maia Lisa
this evening. You know very well that no maid of seventeen years will
ever confess her love, least of all before so many hearers. You ought
to have spoken privately to Maia Lisa, and then she would not have
refused to explain everything.”
The Pastor’s daughter could not help turning and looking at her
grandmother. There was such a meaning tone in her voice and she almost
thought she was trying to give her some private hint. “You treat this
matter so violently, dear son,” continued grandmother, “because you
think it implicates you as well. But you must not imagine that anyone
will ever dream that you had a finger in it. Everyone knows you would
not do a thing to harm Pastor Liliecrona so that you might get the
important living yourself.” A deep silence filled the room, no one knew
what to answer.
“I think Maia Lisa may very well own to having written the letter, and
that you, dear son, may forgive her. Everyone understands that she did
it from youth and inexperience, never guessing that it could have such
terrible consequences.”
Maia Lisa saw that her grandmother was urging her to take the guilt on
her own shoulders, but she did not understand why she wished her to do
so. At last the old lady made a slight movement with one hand to call
her attention to her stepmother. Fru Raklitz still sat crouching in the
same mortal fear and now Maia Lisa understood. Her grandmother believed
her stepmother had sent the note herself, and saw that it was better
for her father to think Maia Lisa had sinned from love and inexperience
than that his wife had done so from the basest of motives. Ah me! such
a demand seemed too terribly hard for Maia Lisa. And in her uncertainty
she looked round and cast a stolen glance at the man still standing
quietly by the bookcase. She thought he met her glance with tender
sympathy, but that must have been a mistake, for he could not fail to
hate her.
“Dear Father,” said Maia Lisa, “forgive me for denying it. But you
terrified me....”
But as she spoke she was overcome by a sense of the wrong she was doing
herself in owning to such a base and horrible deed. She burst into
tears and threw herself into her grandmother’s arms with the cry, “It
is too hard, I really cannot.”
“Yes, of course,” said the old lady. “It was hard, I know, but it is
said now. Come down to my room and have your cry out.” She put her arm
round her waist and led her to the door, still sobbing and repeating
that she could not do it. “You need not say any more,” said Fru Beata;
“your father understands it all; after all, you are but a child.”
When they reached the threshold Liliecrona came back to life again. He
hurried forward and opened the door for Fru Beata, and when he saw the
hall door was shut he went with them and opened it as well. That done,
he noticed the front steps were steep and difficult for an old lady
and so was the slope down to the brewhouse. So he came too, and gave
a helping hand to grandmother. Then there was the horrid stair to her
room, and again he must go all the way. When they got inside her room,
he said not a word, but threw his arms round Fru Beata and kissed her
cheek, then turned to Maia Lisa, took her in his arms, and kissed her
also.
Not a word did he say, and was gone in a moment. But everything this
man did, always came so suddenly, just when it was least expected, that
there was never any chance of being prepared to prevent it.
After all, it was Little-Maid and no one else who settled the matter at
last. The strangers took leave and went their way the moment Mamsell
Maia Lisa had gone with her grandmother to her room in the brewhouse.
The Pastor could not have felt very well, for he did not leave his
chair to take them to the front steps and say farewell. As soon as they
had gone his wife came and told him she had put some supper in the best
parlour, for she thought he must need a little refreshment after all he
had gone through. But he only asked to be left in peace and quiet. It
was Saturday evening, and he had to finish writing his sermon.
So he took his papers out of his desk and scribbled a couple of lines,
but no more, before he threw down his pen, pushed back his chair,
and walked up and down the room. Then he lay down on the corner sofa,
and the room grew so silent that Little-Maid began to wonder if he
had fallen asleep. The cupboard door was cracked and she could see
he was lying on the sofa, but not if his eyes were closed or not. If
only she could have been certain he was asleep she would have tried
to creep away, for she was desperately tired of being shut up in the
narrow cupboard. Besides, how essential it was she should be free to
talk with the Pastor’s daughter and Fru Beata. She could give them some
information that they would be glad to hear.
The Pastor had lain quiet so long that he could not possibly be awake,
so she thought she might at least venture to open just a chink to see
how things were. The door moved without a sound, but the Pastor was not
sleeping, only lying with his eyes fixed on the opposite wall. Just as
Little-Maid was going to close the door again he turned his eyes in
that direction and caught sight of her.
He got up and came to the cupboard. There was nothing for Little-Maid
to do but to open the door and step out. “What is the meaning of this?”
asked the Pastor. “What business have you in my cupboard?”
His face was so stern that Little-Maid grew frightened. The Pastor and
she had always been good friends indeed; she liked him better than
anyone in the house, except, of course, Mamsell Maia Lisa. She did not
want him to think any ill of her, so she hastened to tell him that the
Pastor’s wife had shut her up in the cupboard when he and the strangers
had been in the parlour. They had only come in to fetch his Sunday
clothes.
The Pastor stood thinking and then said, “You may just as well tell the
truth; the matter cannot be worse than it is; it was, of course, Maia
Lisa and not my wife who shut you in.”
Little-Maid was so offended that she could scarcely get out her words.
“Mamsell Maia Lisa!” she said. “The Pastor’s daughter shut me up in a
cupboard to stand there and listen? She wouldn’t stoop to such a thing.”
The Pastor sighed. “There isn’t much she wouldn’t stoop to now,” he
said. “You needn’t think I shall be any more vexed with you if you own
that it was Maia Lisa who shut you in. I shall not be angry with you
for that or anything else if only you will tell the truth.”
Little-Maid knew very well that no untrue word had passed her lips
since she had been at Lövdala, and said so too. But the Pastor did not
seem to hear. “Of course, I see that Maia Lisa had good reason to be
afraid,” he said. “I can understand how she asked you to get in and
listen to what we were saying. But the matter in no way concerned my
wife.”
Little-Maid stood in utter silence. She did not know what to say, for
she had been strictly forbidden by Mamsell Maia Lisa ever to tell the
Pastor any tales about his wife. And her mother had told her not to as
well. It was not the same here as in Svanskog, where she was free to
say anything she pleased. When she did not answer, the Pastor took it
for granted that he was right in what he thought, and ordered her to
go away. She was on her way towards the door when he called her back.
Something else had struck him that he wanted to ask her about.
“Listen now,” he said. “Since you are in the habit of doing such
errands for Maia Lisa, perhaps it was you too who helped her to write
that letter. It is in a child’s hand, and you can both read and write,
can’t you?”
“I have never written any letter for Mamsell Maia Lisa,” answered
Little-Maid, “but I wrote one for the Pastor’s wife.”
“Oh, indeed; you wrote one for my wife,” said the Pastor; “but never
for Maia Lisa.” And it was evident from his tone that he did not
believe her, any more than before. “Perhaps you remember what was in
the letter that my wife got you to write?”
Little-Maid answered that she could say it word for word if the Pastor
wished, and he bade her try.
“I have really no business to write,” she began to repeat, “but I
venture to beg you, dear madam, to consider what you are doing. Pastor
Liliecrona has now found someone who will make him happy. If you will
go away of your own free will they will always be grateful and their
future happiness will be secured. You must remember, madam, that the
new parish has a right to demand a Pastor’s wife of unblemished name.”
The Pastor threw up his hands. “That’s enough,” he said, fixing a long
and piercing glance upon her. “And that is what you wrote for my wife?”
“Yes,” answered Little-Maid without a moment’s hesitation. The Pastor’s
wife had forbidden her to tell that she was teaching her to read and
write, but she had not said a word about this letter.
The Pastor only shrugged his shoulders. “Now you can see you are
telling a lie,” he said in a weary tone. “You were standing in the
cupboard all the time, and, of course, you heard that Maia Lisa owned
to writing it herself.”
Little-Maid felt how red she grew. She thought she really couldn’t
endure this; it vexed her so that the Pastor should think she was
telling a lie. “You can go,” he went on. “I could not understand at
first how it was the letter was not in Maia Lisa’s handwriting, but now
this too is explained. You can go and tell her that.”
But Little-Maid did not go. “It _was_ the Pastor’s wife who made me
write the letter,” she said. “And it _was_ the Pastor’s wife who shut
me in the cupboard.”
“Have you and Maia Lisa agreed to say that?” The Pastor began to look
angry, and she saw she would be driven out if she could not think of
some way of convincing him. As she looked round helplessly in every
direction, she caught sight of the old crofter-woman just passing the
window. “See, there goes the messenger who was sent to Svanskog with
the letter,” she said. “You could ask her whether it was the Pastor’s
wife or the Pastor’s daughter who asked her to take it.”
The Pastor thought of answering that he would hear no more about it,
but he felt the compelling force of Little-Maid’s obstinacy. He got
up and went to the door. As he hastily opened it he stumbled against
someone who was standing very close to it, and that someone was his
wife. He glanced at her, stopped and looked again as though to be quite
sure that it really was her, then went out to the steps and asked the
old peasant woman one or two questions. When he came back, Fru Raklitz
had gone. He sat down by the writing-table and called up Little-Maid.
“Now you shall tell me how everything happened when you wrote the
letter,” he said. And Little-Maid told her tale so clearly that he
could not have a shadow of doubt any longer.
“I see I have done you injustice, Nora Stormwind,” said the Pastor,
“and now as a reward you may go down and tell Maia Lisa all about it.”
Little-Maid needed no second bidding. A moment after she was down in
the brewhouse-room where there was nothing but sorrow and weeping,
telling all her tale. At first the Pastor’s daughter scarcely listened,
but at last she understood that her father knew the truth now, and then
she sprang to her feet.
“Grandmother, grandmother!” she cried, “I must go and see how he
is.” But at that moment the door opened and her father stood on the
threshold. And no longer the same father as to-day and yesterday, but
the father of bygone years, a dear loving father who stood waiting for
her there with outstretched arms.