Charlotte Löwensköld (Musaicum Must Classics). Selma Lagerlöf
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not listen long to such talk.
“Bad as I am,” she reminded him, “I have nevertheless said No this day to Schagerström.”
“Good God!” he exclaimed, “what is the woman made of? She has but just confessed to giving Schagerström No merely because she preferred a bishop to an ironmaster.”
Through it all spoke a still, small voice in his heart. It told him to have a care. Had he not marked that Charlotte Löwensköld disdained to defend herself? If anyone thought ill of her, she never tried to disabuse him of his evil suspicions.
He did not listen to the small warning voice; he had no faith in it. Charlotte’s every utterance only revealed to him new depths of depravity. And now he heard her say:
“My dear Karl Arthur, don’t attach so much importance to what I said as to your attaining such high distinction. It was all a joke. I don’t believe you can ever become either a provost or a bishop.”
He was already overwrought and sorely offended, but after this fresh onslaught the still, small voice within was mute. The blood surged in his ears and his hands shook. The wretched woman had robbed him of his self-control and was driving him mad.
He was conscious of jumping up and down in front of her, of raising his voice to a shriek. He knew that his jaw was shaking and his hands were beating the air. His loathing of her was unspeakable; it could not be interpreted in words, but had to express itself in motions.
“All your vileness is plain to me now,” he shouted. “I see you now as you are. Never, never will I marry a woman like you. You would be my destruction.”
“Anyhow,” said Charlotte, “I have been of some slight service to you. It is thanks to me, is it not, that you are now a licentiate and a doctor of philosophy?”
After that it was not he, himself, who spoke to her. He heard the things that fell from his lips, and approved them; but the words came as a surprise; they seemed to be put into his mouth by another.
“You see!” cried the voice. “Now she reminds me that she has waited for me five years and, consequently, I am compelled to marry her. But I shall marry only whom God chooses for me.”
“Don’t speak of God!” she said.
He turned his face upward and began to study the clouds.
“Yes, yes, yes, I shall let God choose for me. The first woman that crosses my path shall be my wife.”
Charlotte gave a cry and sprang to his side.
“Oh, Karl Arthur, Karl Arthur!” She tried to draw down one of his uplifted arms.
“Don’t touch me!” he yelled savagely.
She put her arms around his neck, not realizing the extent of his fury.
A howl of hate broke from his throat, he caught her arms in an iron grip and flung her back on to the bench, then fled from her sight.
CHAPTER V
THE DALAR GIRL
When Karl Arthur Ekenstedt first saw Korskyrka Deanery, with its stately lindens, its green privet hedge, its venerable gateposts and white gate, through whose pickets could be seen the big circular sward and gravelled walks, the wide red-painted, two-story house, with its two equally large wings—the curate’s to the right, the tenant farmer’s to the left—he said to himself: “This is how a Swedish parsonage should look, at once cosily inviting and restful, at the same time inspiring in the beholder a feeling of reverence.”
And afterward, as he noted the well-kept lawns, the orderly arrangement of the flower beds, where the plants were all of uniform height and at equal distances apart; the decorative designs of the border beds along the nicely raked walks; the carefully pruned wildgrape vines around the small porch; and the long, rich curtains that hung down in even, graceful folds at every window—this, too, gave him a feeling of satisfaction and respect. He knew instinctively that all who lived here must feel in duty bound to behave in a proper and sensible way.
Little did he think that one day he—Karl Arthur Ekenstedt—would be running toward the white gate, his hat poised on one ear, his arms battling the air, and short, ugly howls issuing from his mouth. Shutting the gate behind him, he gave a wild laugh; he fancied the old house and the flowers in their beds stared after him in astonishment.
“Did you ever see the like of it?” went the whisper from flower to flower. “What sort of creature can that be?”
Aye, and the trees wondered, the grass wondered, the whole place wondered. He could hear how surprised they all were.
Could this be the son of the charming Baroness Ekenstedt, the most cultivated lady in all Värmland, who was running away from the deanery as if fleeing the abode of sin and evil?
Could this be a clergyman of Korskyrka Deanery, which had housed so many circumspect and dignified servants of the Lord, who was now going out upon the highway with a fixed determination to propose to the first unmarried woman he met? Was it young Ekenstedt, who had been so delicately reared and had always associated with people of culture and refinement, who recklessly set out to take as companion for life the first female he chanced upon?
Did he not know that he might get a tittle-tattler or a lazybones, a silly goose or a harpy, a slattern or a wasp-tongue? Didn’t he realize that he was faring forth on the most hazardous adventure of his life?
Karl Arthur stood at the gate a moment, listening to the murmurs that went from tree to tree, from flower to flower. Ah, yes, he knew it was a precarious venture, but he also knew that this summer at Korskyrka he had loved the world more than he had his God. Feeling that Charlotte Löwensköld had been a menace to his soul, he wished to raise a barrier between him and her, an impenetrable wall of separation.
He knew the instant he had thrust Charlotte out of his heart, it opened again to Christ. And now he would show his Saviour how boundless was his love for Him; how he trusted in Him above everything. Therefore, he was going to let the Lord choose a wife for him.
No doubts assailed him as he stood at the gate looking toward the road. He thought he showed the greatest courage a man could have by placing his fate wholly in the Hand of God.
The last thing before leaving the gate, he said an “Our Father.” During the prayer, all became quiet within and he also regained his outward composure. The angry flush disappeared from his face, and his jaw no longer trembled.
And now, as he walked toward the village, which he needs must do, of course, if he wished to meet people, his mind was not wholly free from dread. He had gone no farther than to the end of the deanery hedge when he suddenly halted. It was the poor, timorous heart of the man that stopped him. Only an hour or so earlier, returning from the church town, he had met at this very spot the deaf beggar woman, Karin Johansdotter, in her patched kirtle and thread-worn shawl, and shouldering her long beggar’s pack.
To be sure, she had been married once on a time, though now a widow these many years, and free to marry again. A sudden fear that she might be the one he would meet had made him pause. But he scoffed at the poor, frightened thing in his breast that tried to prevent him carrying out his purpose—and walked on.
A moment later, he heard the rumble of a moving vehicle, and shortly afterward a cart, drawn by a fine pacer, passed him in the road.
In the cart sat one of the proud, influential mine-owners of the district who was reputed to be rich as Schagerström. He had a daughter with him, and, had he come from the other direction, the young clergyman, in accordance with his avowal, would have been obliged to signal the arrogant man to stop so that he could propose to the daughter.
It was not easy to say what the sequence to such a rash act would have been. . . . A cut of the whip across the face most likely. Mine-owner Aaron Månsson was accustomed to marry off