CHAPTER II

THE SPINNING-WHEELS

The tall old grandfather’s clock which stood in the kitchen bedroom at Lövdala struck six with a rattle, as though the heavy weights were crashing into the nethermost depths, and woke Little-Maid, as she lay sleeping on three chairs, the insecure bed that had been hastily arranged for her late the night before.

She sprang out of bed with a scream, and rushed into the middle of the room. She had been dreaming that she was in her coffin, and was just going to be buried with the church bells tolling above her. But as her feet touched the cold floor she became at once fully awake. Supposing there was anyone in the room to hear how she had screamed? How the Parsonage maids would laugh if they found out she had been afraid of the clock. She did not understand why she had been frightened, for, although they had no clocks at Koltorp, yet in Nugord there were striking clocks both in the large sitting-room and in the little bedroom, so that it was no new sound to her.

It was not quite dark in the bedroom. A couple of small logs of wood were burning in the stove in the far corner, so that she could see a little. No, there was no one else in the room. The narrow wooden couch where Mamsell Maia Lisa, the Pastor’s daughter, had been lying when she came the night before, was not only empty, but made up for the day.

But if Mamsell Maia Lisa was up, it was high time she dressed too.

She put a piece of wood on the fire; if it would only burn up brightly enough to let her find her shoes, stockings, and other garments, she would soon be ready.

How strange it was to be here, dressing herself in the kitchen bedroom of the Parsonage, the very same Lövdala where her Mother had been nursemaid before she married Father. She wondered if she would ever love it as much as Mother had done.

There was no one in the world--except, of course, Little-Lad--whom Mother loved so dearly as the Pastor’s daughter. She spoke of her as if she were a princess.

The Pastor’s daughter was so beautiful that when she went out riding or driving people left their work and stood near the garden just to look at her.

The Pastor was a person of great importance in the parish, but he used to say that no one thought much of him in comparison with his daughter. He was an outsider, but she was one of the family who had been Pastors there for a hundred years, and it was she alone who would inherit Lövdala and the parish as well.

It had almost irritated Little-Maid to hear so much about the Pastor’s daughter. It had almost seemed as though no one else was of any account where she was concerned. At any rate, it would be nice to have the chance of seeing her now.

If only she knew what the humming was that she heard as she dressed. Could it be yesterday’s tempest still in her ears? or had the storm begun to rage again? Yet what she heard was not so much like wind as the steady hum of a mill.

At last she was dressed and opened the kitchen door.

No wonder it had hummed!

The whole kitchen was full of spinning-wheels and spinners--wheels and spinners, one behind the other until she could see no end to them.

She turned so dizzy that she had to stop a moment on the threshold. Three spinning-wheels going at once in a room were the most she had ever seen before. But however many were there here? She wondered if she would be able to count them.

It was so dark, too, in the kitchen that it was no easy matter to make things out. A few resinous, knotty pieces of juniper root were burning in an iron basket hanging from a tall iron pole rising from the hearth, and that was all. And not only the bad light made it difficult to see, but spinners and wheels alike were half hidden in the cloud of dust rising from their work.

Never, however, had she seen such a sight. As she stood looking upon the spinning-wheels with their treadles and spindles, and upon the busy hands and fingers, she grew more and more dizzy.

To master her thoughts she began to ask herself questions as her Mother had advised her.

“How many skeins of yarn are spun in this kitchen every single morning? And how many bundles of skeins are already hanging in the garret? And how many looms would have to be started in the spring to weave up all the yarn? And how many lengths of linen would have to be laid out afterwards to bleach? And how many----”

There now, the dizzy feeling had gone.

She could venture to step in now amongst the spinning-wheels.

There were not such a terrible number as she had thought at first, although there were not very few either. They stood in a long irregular line from the chimney, right away to the door.

Nearest the chimney and the glimmer of light sat the Pastor’s wife, spinning fine white cotton on a wheel inlaid with yellow. Behind her sat someone whom she could guess was the old housekeeper that Mother used to talk about, with a spinning-wheel painted red and green. Beyond her sat five young girls--cook, housemaid, kitchenmaid, dairymaid, and brewhouse maid--all spinning fine linen yarn on ordinary, unpainted wheels. Still farther off sat a crofter-woman, with a humpback, spinning light blue yarn on a poor old wheel. And farthest away of all, down by the kitchen door, in the cold draught from the passage, and in almost utter darkness, there was still one more spinner. She had a wheel with three of its spokes gone, the string was full of knots, the treadle out of order, and she was spinning coarse flax so rough and full of bits that anywhere else it would not have been thought worth using. But the spinner sitting there seemed to spin it as easily and quickly as the others their fine flax.

Who this might be Little-Maid could not imagine. Surely someone who had come to the Parsonage as a learner.

“You poor thing,” she thought, “you have a bad time of it; you are evidently in the Pastorwife’s black books.”

There were no more than these in the kitchen, and she couldn’t imagine what had made her think there were such an endless number.

They all of them did nothing but spin and spin. Mother used to sing or tell tales whilst she worked, but not one of these ever opened her lips.

The Pastor’s wife beckoned to Little-Maid. She was to hand her carded cotton out of a basket on the floor to save her having to stoop.

And this Little-Maid did for ever so long. The wheels hummed, treadles went, and spindles flew round. She began to grow dizzy once more, and was obliged to steady her brain again by asking the same useful questions.

“How many skeins of yarn can they spin here in a single morning? And how many bundles of skeins are already----”

But how was it she had not yet caught sight of the Pastor’s daughter? Surely she would be sitting there spinning, as well as the Pastor’s wife. But perhaps it was almost foolish to expect to find her spinning with the maids. She was too fine for that, of course, such a dainty little lady as she was.

Why, she was to inherit Lövdala and all the parish as well. No doubt she was sitting on the parlour sofa, embroidering flowers on a piece of silk.

Stay, what was wrong now? There was certainly someone doing what they shouldn’t, for the Pastor’s wife kept turning her head time after time towards the door.

Time had crept on now so far that it was getting light. The grey dawn came creeping in through the tiny window-panes.

Even right down the room, where Little-Maid was standing, she could see that the spinner sitting nearest the door had left off working. She was not asleep, but sitting with her hand on her wheel, gazing before her. But she did not seem to see what was passing in the room.

And certainly she did not know that the Pastor’s wife had noticed that her spinning-wheel had stopped.

What a gentle, bright face that far-away spinner had, and what great serious blue eyes! She did not look as though she could have stopped from idleness, but only because she was obliged to sit still and think.

But every moment that passed the Pastor’s wife set her mouth harder and harder, until she looked so stern that Little-Maid felt afraid of her.

Now she stopped her wheel too, and stood up. And the other one still sat quiet and never noticed that the Pastor’s wife was making her way between the spinning-wheels down to the door. She never stirred until the Pastor’s wife stood over her and laid her hand on her neck. Then she uttered a little cry and tried to free herself, but the Pastor’s wife had taken too firm a grasp of the little neck. With one hand she forced her back, and with the other she took the bundle of coarse flax from the distaff, pressed it on her face, and scrubbed it round and round.

“I suppose we are not all of us sitting here working for you!” she said roughly, in a harsh voice. “And there you sit and go to sleep.”

Little-Maid all but cried out “Never, never!” Was that the Pastor’s daughter? But it couldn’t be anyone else that they were all working for.

The Pastor’s wife gave her a last violent shake, threw the bundle of flax on the floor, and went back to her place.

But at the same moment the housekeeper and the five maids and the crofter-woman got up from their chairs and pushed aside their wheels.

The Pastor’s wife turned to the housekeeper with an astonished look.

“I think,” said the housekeeper, “that Madam knows that the maids are not required to spin whilst the Christmas holiday lasts, but it is the custom for us to have the time to ourselves and for our own work. And no doubt Madam knows too, that if we were to go and ask the Pastor, he would say we were to do as we have always done. We have been spinning all the morning because Mamsell Maia Lisa begged us to do as Madam wished; but now we stop, for we can see that whatever is done Madam treats her just as badly as ever.”

When that was said, the housekeeper with all five maids and the crofter-woman picked up the spinning-wheels to carry them out of the kitchen.

But the Pastor’s wife stepped quickly up to the door.

“Not a single spinning-wheel goes out of the kitchen with my consent,” she said.

But the housekeeper went up to her without hesitation, for she felt she had right on her side. It looked as though something dreadful would happen in another minute.

But instead something quite unforeseen took place.

The Pastor’s wife glanced round about, as though to see if anyone would help her. Her eyes fell on Little-Maid, and when she saw how the child stood staring at her in an agony of fear, as if she saw an evil spirit, she was transformed in a moment.

She went away from the door just as the housekeeper had come within a yard of it.

“Fair is fair,” she said. “If, as Kaisa says, it is the custom for you to have a holiday at Christmas, you can have it this year too. But you might have explained civilly and not been so insolent.”

“We can remember that next time,” answered the housekeeper sullenly.

There was no time for more, for a little bell was heard ringing through the house.

“There’s the Pastor ringing for morning prayers,” said the housekeeper. “We must put away the spinning-wheels later.”

They all went towards the hall door, but Little-Maid stood as if she could not stir. “How could it be the Pastor’s daughter sitting away there by the door, spinning that coarse flax? It was a crying sin and shame. If only Mother knew of it!”

The maids tramped out in a long row, and the kitchen was empty, when the Pastor’s daughter, who went last, turned and held out her hand.

“You must come to morning prayers too.” What a gentle voice she had, and what a pretty, soft little hand! Little-Maid put hers in it, rather shyly at first, but as they walked across the hall she clasped her fingers tighter and tighter. When they reached the door to the Pastor’s room the Pastor’s daughter bent down to Little-Maid.

“I hear you are the daughter of Marit, my old nurse.”

“Yes,” said Little-Maid, “and I have come here to help you.”

The Pastor’s daughter smiled.

“Yes, little one,” she said; “indeed I need someone badly enough to help me.”