CHAPTER XII

ENSIGN ORNECLOU

The new mistress of Lövdala Parsonage had a habit of sending messages and small commissions by anyone, no matter who it might be. Whether the passer-by was peasant or not, she used to stand on the kitchen steps and wave and call until he stopped. Then it fell to the lot of either Maia Lisa or Little-Maid to rush down the road and beg the travellers to be good enough to take with them a tub of butter that Fru Raklitz wanted to sell to the Captain at Berga or to return a weaving-reed that she had borrowed from old Fru Moreus. Sometimes she contrived to ask a favour which was both tiresome and difficult, so that soon people were really afraid to pass Lövdala. It wasn’t pleasant to say “no” to the Pastor’s wife, and yet quite impossible to slip past without being seen.

However it might be, she certainly had an unusual talent for getting folk to run her errands.

She was even able to press such a good-for-nothing dandy as Orneclou into her service. There had not seemed much prospect of any friendship between the Ensign and the Pastor’s wife when he visited Lövdala in the last week of January, the time when he was in the habit of coming for a week or a fortnight. But Fru Raklitz said as soon as he came that she would see the lazy-bones did not stay there long. She had just got the work in full swing again after all the Christmas festivities, and she wasn’t going to harbour any visitor who needed waiting on.

And then, too, it was not as if he came by himself, for poor as he was, he always drove his own sledge, and the horse needed food and service no less than his master. Fru Raklitz did all she could to make him uncomfortable. To begin with, she told the housemaid to carry his heavy bag where he kept his wigs and his curling tongs up to the poorest spare room. Orneclou was accustomed to the best; where there was a fine curtained bed with a feather bolster and soft down pillows, but he had never looked so pleased with that as he did now when he was shown into the other.

“If I haven’t always wanted to sleep here!” he said. This was the room they called the “night quarters,” for there anyone who came asking for a night’s lodging got a bed, no matter who it was. Here he could be nearly certain of having a companion every night, and he slept so badly that he really needed someone to talk to. Besides, it was rather oppressive in the great four-poster in the other room. He would much rather lie on this narrow straw mattress. And best of all there was neither fireplace nor stove, but the room was warmed from the great kitchen chimney running up the wall and half filling the room. Just think--no fumes, no smoke, but a comfortable, even temperature day and night!

And so he went on as long as the housemaid was in the room. But no one can tell what he did when she had gone. It was a cold day and none too warm in the unheated room where he had to change his clothes and make himself smart. But his cheeks had such rosy tints and his eyebrows were so delicately pencilled when he came to midday dinner that no one would have dreamt that he had done the whole operation with fingers numb with cold. The Pastor’s wife knew well enough that there never was a bigger gourmand than Orneclou, and that not only did he want good food, but he liked to eat it in a grand room served on fine damask and shining silver. She knew, too, that he had before always dined in the best room, and that they had made things as festive for him as possible; but now, when she wished to put a speedy end to his visit, she set the dinner in the kitchen parlour in very homely fashion, and offered nothing more than black puddings and cabbage soup.

Orneclou was in his most amiable mood and sat all dinner-time complimenting the Pastor on his cleverness in marrying again. Did he remember what a life the old rural dean of Sjöskoga had had when he had been left a widower for so many years? When the Ensign had last called on him the dining-room had not been scoured and they had had to dine in one of the bedrooms. There wasn’t a clean tablecloth in the house, but stains on every one, and the maids were too idle to cook anything but cabbage soup, which was made on Sunday and came back day after day--and even that they had to be thankful to get. But his dear old friend in Lövdala had contrived to get something very different. It was no easy matter to find such a good housekeeper as his wife. He had heard such accounts of her skill that he had wondered very much what delicacies he would taste on his next visit to the Parsonage. And not only that, but what an advantage for Maia Lisa to learn how a table ought to be laid and a dinner served from someone who knew exactly how these things were done in the best society.

Fine gentleman Orneclou certainly had a special gift for saying nasty things, and no doubt they did their work, but Anna Maria Raklitz was not a woman to be turned from her purpose by a couple of sharp words, so she said in her harsh voice: “If Ensign Orneclou was not comfortable in the widower’s house, I suppose he could have left and gone his way.”

Then Orneclou saw that there would be no dining in the best parlour nor sleeping in the proper bedroom unless he chose another plan of attack. He would, however, have submitted if there had not been one other reason as well for feeling injured. It was remarkable that a woman should want to drive him away. That had never happened to him before, and he couldn’t get over it. Certainly he was a good bit on the wrong side of forty, but all the same he was a handsome man, and no woman had ever yet been able to withstand his charms.

This gave the Ensign pause. For an hour or two he sat playing chess with the Pastor, but when the latter went out in the dusk to talk over farm matters with Long-Bengt, the Ensign went into the sitting-room with the intention of chatting to the Pastor’s wife. She was sitting bolt upright by the window, making use of what little light was left to finish mending a pair of stockings. So Orneclou began somewhat cautiously to explain that he felt he was growing old and with increasing years came more wisdom than in youth. Young girls were, one and all, unstable and frivolous, but now that he had determined to give up a butterfly existence he wondered if Cousin--as an old friend of her husband’s he hoped he might call her Cousin--knew any somewhat older lady--not too old, of course, but well on in the twenties--who was both domesticated and discreet and might be willing to take a poor man like himself.

The Pastor’s wife never stirred. In the dim light, it was not easy to see the expression on her face, but Orneclou fancied a slight smile passed over her thin lips. Very likely she was sitting there making a fool of him. What a terrible creature Lyselius had married to be sure! Why, as a rule, there was no surer way to an elderly lady’s heart than to ask her to help in a little match-making. Orneclou had never in his life talked to a woman about anything but love or marriage, and not a word could he say on any other subject. So he began again with the same thing, only now he directly contradicted what he had said before.

“I see plainly, Cousin,” he went on, “that you have heard so much about me that you do not believe I should be content with a wife no longer beautiful nor young either. No doubt you think I should like her to be sensible and clever, and have these other qualities as well. And I think that Maia Lisa Lyselius, since Cousin has taken her training in hand----” Orneclou paused discreetly to see if he might venture farther on the same road or if he was only on a wild-goose chase. The twilight grew darker and darker, so that it was more and more difficult to see the expression on the face of his uncommunicative listener, but he almost fancied that she was slyly smiling to herself.

“Of course, the idea is for Maia Lisa to marry a pastor, and live and rule here in Lövdala,” continued Orneclou; “and there is, of course, a good deal to be said for such a plan. Lyselius will manage to choose for her some fine, capable man who can do something besides stand in a pulpit, and can cultivate land as well as he can himself. Now such a husband as myself would need a helping hand at every turn from his mother-in-law, which might perhaps be very troublesome. No doubt, Cousin, you have arranged matters so that when you are left a widow--and between ourselves it is remarkable how Lyselius has failed the last year--you may be able to have a room for yourself like Fru Beata Spaak and not have to trouble about anything.”

The Pastor’s wife sat bolt upright, drawing her needle in and out. But now as she turned to the window to see better, he noticed she was laughing outright.

Orneclou began to think that nothing in the world would have any effect on her, so he got up to go to his room to curl his wig or freshen up his shirt frill as was his custom when he was annoyed. But now the Pastor’s wife turned and asked him: “Ensign, you have been about everywhere, do you happen to know a certain Liliecrona, pastor of Finnerud?”

The Ensign started. It seemed almost as though his words about a son-in-law had had some effect. Perhaps there had been some thought of Liliecrona, and what he said might have raised a doubt as to whether he were quite suitable.

“Olle Liliecrona,” he repeated. “Why, of course I know him. I have stayed with him up in Finnerud. He is a splendid fellow, understands everything, and has taught the men and women as well all kinds of handicraft.”

“I wonder if he really has an eye on Maia Lisa,” continued the Pastor’s wife very candidly. “We hear nothing but praise of him.”

Her words betokened only motherly interest, but Orneclou fancied he heard in her tone a suggestion that she would have no objection to hearing a little scandal about this new lover.

“Of course, Cousin,” replied Orneclou, “you know the world well enough to make allowance for youth, and you must remember what a lonely life he has had up there amongst the Finns. But there is, of course, no denying that Liliecrona has had some sort of entanglement for a good many years now. Of course, it can easily be put right without Maia Lisa’s hearing a word about the matter.”

The darkness had at last compelled the Pastor’s wife to put down her darning; she did not, however, light a candle on that account, but picked up her knitting, which she could manage without looking at it at all. Her pins worked quickly and quietly, but when Orneclou spoke of an entanglement they fairly rattled. Her voice sounded completely changed as she exclaimed: “What do you say, Ensign? Surely, it is impossible for a pastor----? How can the bishop----?”

“You do not realise, Cousin, how far it is to Finnerud. I must tell you I don’t believe anyone knows a thing about it, not even his nearest relatives. It was by the merest chance I discovered it, and, of course, I have never spoken of it until now, when I see that my duty to a tender mother’s anxiety compels me to disclose my doubts.”

Again the pins rattled violently. “But perhaps there is no truth in it either,” she returned, “everyone is slandered sometimes.”

Orneclou cleared his throat. “You force me to tell more than I wanted. But, as I said, I consider it my duty to give you a clear insight into the business. I assure you, Cousin, that I had no idea how things were until my last visit to Liliecrona shortly before Christmas. He was not at home when I came, but his housekeeper welcomed me and begged me to wait for her master. Well, it was a long time before he returned and in the meantime I began to chat with the woman. In her way she was really a superb creature, not Finnish by extraction, but from the ‘Swedish Land,’ as the Finns say, and wonderfully capable too. I have always admired the unwearying energy with which she made his life up there in the Finn quarters endurable for poor Liliecrona. Well, there we sat and talked. You understand, Cousin. She is not of the better class, really only a peasant girl, but very sensible in everything she says. We had, however, not exchanged many words before I noticed that there was something on her mind. I spoke kindly--you know, Cousin, that I understand women’s ways--and she gained confidence in me. She asked me straight out what I thought would happen if Liliecrona got the fine living. Eight years ago, when she first came up there, he had promised to marry her as soon as he got a better post. But she was afraid now that Sjöskoga was far too large. Suppose Liliecrona should think she was not grand enough to be the wife of a rural dean!

“Now, Cousin, you can understand that she was in despair. I could do nothing but calm her, as best I might, and promise to try to influence Liliecrona in his plans. Next day I told him quite plainly that I had discovered his entanglement, and asked him why he hadn’t married at once. He answered quite frankly that he had been too poor. If he had married his maid, as he said, then she would have been Fru Liliecrona, and he would have had to keep another maid to wait on her. ‘Then, my friend,’ he added, ‘you may be sure she would have stopped milking the cows and helping Peterkin with the field work. But marry I shall, of course, as soon as I see my way clear.’ I suggested when he got to Sjöskoga.... ‘Oh, Sjöskoga,’ he replied, ‘I am not going there. I mean to refuse it.’”

Orneclou stopped. He could scarcely see the Pastor’s wife in the darkness, nor could he hear her pins rattling either. He felt almost terrified. Perhaps after all he had made a mistake, or, at any rate, acted very unwisely.

“Now, Cousin, I have told you all I know,” he began once more, “and I must beg you not to attach too much importance to it. In any case there is not a more promising young pastor in the whole diocese than Liliecrona. Think how, with all his talents, he has sacrificed himself for those poor Finn peasants and lived in poverty these last eleven years. I must say he is a hero, every bit as much as that Corsican people are making such a fuss about just now.”

But the silence continued. Orneclou grew more and more gloomy. He was beginning once more to sing Liliecrona’s praises when the Pastor’s wife got up and said with a very different voice: “I hear Lyselius coming in. And now, Cousin Orneclou, you must go and have a talk with him instead of sitting here in the dark with me. He is only too glad to get such an old friend as you to himself for a little while.”

And after that Fru Raklitz entirely changed towards Orneclou. He had his meals in the fine dining-room, his bed in the best spare room, and such delicacies were put before him as not even the Pastor himself had ever tasted. Nor was he much astonished. Did he not know of old that no woman could withstand him when he took so much trouble as he had done with old Raklitz? Yet it did strike him as a little strange until he had reasoned out that most certainly she had thought over his offer and intended to accept him as a son-in-law. Now Orneclou had not been much in earnest with his proposal. But, after all, why not? It wouldn’t be so much amiss to get Maia Lisa Lyselius. And that he could get her was as clear as the day. The mother-in-law was so taken with him that she didn’t know how to do enough for him.

But before he bound himself for good, he thought he ought to make a tour round Värmland and visit all the good old places whose hospitality he had once enjoyed. Once he was married and had a wife and house he must, of course, stay at home. He certainly could not stay at Lövdala this time so long as he generally did, but he must move on as quickly as possible, only, of course, that he might come back so much the sooner. When he explained next morning that he must go he could see that both the Pastor’s wife and daughter were sorry. Indeed, they wished to persuade him to stay, but he stood firm. He must without fail be in Karlstad before evening. He did not, of course, say in so many words that he was only going to come back again and be master of the house, but that was quite understood! The Pastor’s wife, who was generally accounted a woman of more than ordinary ability, knew well enough what his plans were. He felt how he longed to be back even before he had gone. He would be comfortable here without a doubt.

Just as he was preparing to put on his furs the Pastor’s wife came and asked if he could possibly do her a favour. Her ladyship in Lokene had asked her to sell her a cock and she wondered if it would trouble him too much to take it with him. If he was bound for Karlstad he would pass Lokene on his way.

The Ensign said “yes” at once, and said it gladly too, for not only was he pleased to do his future mother-in-law a favour, but he was very willing to have an excuse for looking in at Lokene and getting a meal there.

But when he said “yes” he certainly had no idea that it was a live cock he was to take with him. For he had such a terribly little sledge, there was nothing for it but to put the box with the cock in it on to the seat and take his own place on the back step. However, he put a good face on it to the end; at all costs he must show old Raklitz that she would never get a more polite and obliging son-in-law than he was. So off he started in splendid bright January weather with the sun shining like the end of March and no cold to speak of. He felt quite a different man from when he came yesterday. Lövdala and Maia Lisa! To own and rule them both! To have a home of his own where he could receive his friend if he wished! That, indeed, was quite another matter than going from house to house all the year round and never being quite sure what sort of welcome awaited him.

It was quick travelling along the good road, and Orneclou was soon in Lobyn. Here he met an old peasant with a cartload of straw, no other than Biorn Hindriksson himself. “A rich and worthy man Biorn Hindriksson,” he said to himself as he pulled the reins to stop and have a word with him. He was a near neighbour at Lövdala, and since Orneclou was soon to be master there, it would be well to make a friend of him.

But what now? Whatever was it crowing in his ear just as he stopped? He all but fell off the narrow step in his fright, for he had forgotten all about the cock. His horse Fingal did not turn a hair. He had been through so much that nothing in the world could frighten him. But Biorn Hindriksson’s Brownie was not so hardened to surprises. Off he tore and tipped the whole cartload into the ditch.

This was no good beginning to friendship, and in his annoyance Orneclou cracked his whip over Fingal’s back. No sooner had the sledge started than the cock held his peace. Again he went on at a good pace, and again his thoughts turned to Maia Lisa. She was beautiful, not more than seventeen years old, and the owner of half Lövdala. A piece of good luck like that ought to fall to a man like himself who was no longer in his first youth!

Again there was someone coming along the road, this time a gentleman and lady on horseback. It could surely be no other than the Countess Dohna out for a ride in this direction. A fine woman this dowager Countess of Borg! And it was always pleasant to meet a lady who could ride so well. It was only a pity she should have with her the little black-whiskered foreigner whom she had taken under her wing.

Orneclou stopped, got down from the step and stood in a posture of admiration, hat in hand. Then the cock crew. The Countess tightened her reins and looked round in surprise. Where did the noise come from? How could a cock get on to the high road so far from any dwelling? Perhaps she might never have found out if the creature hadn’t crowed again. But then she understood, and, like the intriguing piece of goods she was, she set to work to talk to Orneclou and keep him standing still on the high road for a full three minutes. And on the cock went, crowing between every word they said!

And dandy Orneclou had to endure this. The finest gentleman in Värmland had to submit to be made ridiculous in this way. The Countess sat there doing nothing but talk as if she never heard the cock, and that though every other word was drowned in a shrill crow. But Orneclou was in such anguish that the cold sweat drops stood on his brow. At last he could stand it no longer but jumped on to the sledge and off he drove. In an instant the cock stopped, but Orneclou heard instead the Countess’s clear rippling laugh. It followed him beyond the parish, followed him to the end of his journey, followed him all through life, for he could never forget it.

What a temptation it was to lift the lid and let the cock go, but he thought of Maia Lisa and Lövdala and made up his mind to endure. It would not do to get into his mother-in-law’s black books, and once past Svartsjö Church the road went through desolate forest where he thought he would meet no one.

But as ill-luck would have it, the weather was too fine for that. Everyone seemed to be seized with a desire to choose that very day for a long drive. So it was not long before the Ensign chanced to meet the head of his regiment. It is true, Orneclou had long since left the service, but still he prided himself on such dignity and propriety of manner as beseems a man who has trodden the field of glory. But just as he drew himself up for a stiff military salute the cock must needs crow again. It really was enough to drive a man desperate! One meeting after another spoilt, nothing but misfortune upon misfortune!

Last of all far away on the Sundgard hills he met the new owner of the Biorn ironworks, Melchior Sinclaire. That was the last straw, the worst luck of all, for people had nicknamed Sinclaire “The Cock,” because he had such a loud voice, and was so perky and always ready to quarrel and fight. Sinclaire knew of his nickname, and did not particularly care for it; indeed, it was as much as anyone’s life was worth to speak of hens or eggs when he was anywhere near. In his distress Orneclou decided not to stop and speak, but to drive past Sinclaire as fast as Fingal’s legs could go. But whatever he did went wrong to-day. The ironmaster had been to Karlstad and bought a new set of harness bells, whose merry music so cheered up chanticleer that he began to crow just as they passed. Orneclou stood up, flourished his whip and gave Fingal a smart stroke on the loins. At all costs he must get away as quickly as possible. But he was not to get off so easily. Melchior Sinclaire was furious. He had not caught sight of the box with the cock in it, but he had recognised Orneclou and thought he had crowed as he passed just on purpose to annoy him. He whipped up his horse and tore after Orneclou to punish him.

The Ensign heard him coming and thought it would be best to stop and explain. But once more the cock awoke the echoes with his shrill note, and Sinclaire, thinking it was Orneclou, grew so furious that he roared like a great wild beast. Orneclou dared not wait for him, but beat a retreat, and for a couple of minutes there was a wild race over the Sundgard hills. But the ironmaster had a good steed, and Fingal was old and worn out, so it was evident that the Ensign would soon be caught. And when he looked round he noticed that his enemy was brandishing his whip as high as he could to strike him over the head.

Then he said good-bye to all his hopes of Maia Lisa and Lövdala. He bent forward, lifted up the box and flung it straight in front of Melchior Sinclaire. And so he got away, or else the great fellow would certainly have killed him, for he was not the man to listen to excuses or explanations when he was angered.

When the Ensign reached the Ilberg inn he was utterly worn out; in fact, he thought he would never get over this drive of his.

He never showed his face again at Lövdala, for this was the most sickening adventure he had ever experienced in all his life. To own and rule indeed! He couldn’t bear even to think of it.