"What do you say to that, my lanky cousin—pretty bit of goods the banker's got hold of there. Who is she?"
"Mrs. Rantzau, the music teacher."
"Oho! So that's the lady, is it! Well, I must say, she looks quite smart."
"When are you coming to see me?"
"My dear child, think of your reputation! What would the world say if I were to go visiting a love-lorn female without a chaperon in the world?"
"Don't talk nonsense. Come home and have dinner. I've a nice piece of fish."
"And apple sauce, what? No, thank you; I was ill for a fortnight last time I sampled your new-fangled menus. But I mustn't take up your valuable time.Addio, cara mia!"
And Vindt strode off, in time to see Hermansen andMrs. Rantzau disappear round the corner. He began to wonder what it could mean.
Banker Hermansen running off in business hours with a lady all dressed up—this was something altogether unprecedented, and enough to set others beside Vindt agape. Hermansen, a man devoid of all tender feeling, whose heart was popularly supposed to be made of rhinoceros hide—surely he could not be going that way like any other mortal?
Vindt was so occupied with the phenomenon that he walked full tilt into Listad and the schoolmaster, the former of whom buttonholed at once and began delivering a long harangue about the new Ministry and the political situation.
"... Such a state of things, my dear sir, is more than gloomy; it is desperate. And thefons et origoof the whole trouble lies in the fact that...."
"That there's too many amateurs poking their fingers into the business as it is, and an ungodly mess they're making of it, instead of sticking to their work and doing something useful."
Listad thought he had never met a ruder fellow than this unceremonious broker; never encountered a citizen with a more callous disregard to higher political aims, and the needs of the country.
"But what—what is to become of a nation if its individual units allow themselves to be swallowed up in mere material strivings, deaf to the call of lofty ideals, blind to the moral welfare of the land, and of humanity at large? I ask you, how will such a people fare?"
"First-rate, if you ask me," said Vindt, and walked off.
Meantime Malla Trap had come to the conclusionthat she might as well take up the business in hand with Holm himself at once; it would have to be done sooner or later.
She went up to the drawing-room, and told the maid to go down and ask if Mr. Holm could spare a few minutes.
Holm was somewhat surprised at the message; Malla Trap did not often come round like this of her own accord in the middle of the week.
"Well, my dear Miss Trap, is there anything special the matter since we have the pleasure of seeing you to-day? Or were you feeling lonely, perhaps?"
"Lonely enough I am at times, Knut Holm."
"Why, yes, I suppose—when one is all by oneself—er—one feels that way now and then. I know myself I often feel the want of company, someone to confide in——"
"Ah, but you've memories, Knut Holm, happy memories."
"That's true—but even then—it's apt to be dull all the same in the long-run, with nothing but memories."
"I hear you are thinking of marrying again."
"And who's been kind enough to tell you that?"
"Oh, I had it from a reliable source. But honestly, Knut Holm, I think you will do well to reflect before you do."
"I've put in quite enough reflection over it already, my dear Malla Trap, worked it out all round. I know it means a lot of extra expense and bother, with new arrangements and all that, but seeing I can't reasonably expect to live more than another twenty years or so, I fancy there'll be enough to manage it."
"So that's what you call working it out, is it?Working out sums of money! I thought you were a man of loftier ideals than that."
"I was, in my younger days, Malla Trap. Do you remember the time when we two were fond of each other?"
"I don't think I've forgotten it."
"We were as good as engaged, weren't we?"
"I had your promise, Knut Holm, and I trusted you. I waited and waited, but you never came."
"Yes, it was a pity, I know. But, you see, your father was so furious when he heard about it, and treated me in such a manner, that I simply couldn't put up with it. And then, afterwards, there were those affairs with Maggie and Mrs. Gronlund—but I'm sure I don't know what we want to go dragging up all that for. We've got along quietly and comfortably now together these many years; let bygones be bygones, say I."
"Oh, I've forgiven you everything long ago. But I haven't forgotten, and I've my own reasons for reminding you of it all to-day for the first and last time. So go on."
Holm walked up and down restlessly, wondering what Malla Trap could have in mind. It did not occur to him for the moment that she might be acting on William's behalf, or he might have been less frank. As it was, he went on with a touch of forced gaiety:
"Well, well, my dear Malla Trap, if you must have the old story set out in detail, don't mind me. I'll tell you all about it. I had to marry Maggie, you see; as a gentleman I could do nothing else. And as for Mrs. Gronlund, why, seeing she wouldn't give up the boy, I had to take her as well. Altogether, you see, it's been the boy's fault all along. If it hadn't beenfor him, you and I might have fixed things up after all."
"Best as it was, I dare say. But I ask you now, for the sake of our old friendship, do not make another woman unhappy."
"But, my dear soul, Maggie and Mrs. Gronlund were as happy as could be. I really think I've a sort of gift for making women happy, when I love them."
"Ha, ha! Excuse my laughing, but really, Knut Holm, I can't help it. You loved me once, or so you said, at least."
"Oh, we were only children then."
"But I can't say you ever made me happy in that way."
"I assure you, Malla Trap, I've been more sorry than you know about that business."
"Oh, I don't think you ever troubled much to think what a forsaken woman feels, what misery it means to her."
"Well, honestly, I don't find it easy to put myself in her place, as it were—no, I can't say—— It must be very unpleasant, of course.... H'm. But you seem to have got along pretty comfortably all the same, as far as one can see."
"As far as one can see, yes." Her voice was earnest now. "Has it never occurred to you to think why Malla Trap grew into the eccentric, half-foolish creature people turn to smile at now? Do you know what it means to lose one's whole objective in life? Ah, no, you wouldn't understand; no one else, perhaps, could understand how a woman's life can be made empty, aimless, a mere chaos of existence—though, Heaven be thanked, there have been little rays of sun-light here and there. And when the whole poorcomedy is ended, why, I hope there may be some few that will spare a kindly thought for Malla Trap."
"If I knew how I could help you, Malla Trap, I'd do it gladly. But, honestly, I can't see what you're driving at just now."
"I want your son to be happy, that's all."
"Oh—so that's where the trouble lies, is it? Very sensible of him, I'm sure, to get you on his side, but if you'll excuse my saying so, Malla Trap, you'd better leave things alone."
He strode up and down, and the casual, easy-going air he had assumed gave way to a more serious expression. At last he stopped, and stood facing her.
"There are critical moments in every man's life," he began, "and, and—I reckon I've had my share. I've been on the verge of bankruptcy...."
"In 1875, yes."
"Why—how did you know?"
"Oh, I knew how matters stood then, well enough."
"There wasn't a soul that knew it except C. Henrik Pettersen."
"You think so, do you?"
"There was Hermansen at the bank, he had some idea, I dare say, but nobody else."
"I knew."She drew off her gloves and smoothed them out on the table. Holm stood still, looking earnestly at her.
"Was it—was it you, then, that sent me the hundred and fifty pounds?"
"You've guessed it at last, then? Yes, it was I. I knew you were in desperate straits, that you would be ruined if you did not get help from somewhere."
"After I'd treated you so badly?"
"A woman's heart's a strange thing."
"But why did you never tell me before to-day?"
"I should never have told you at all, if it hadn't been for William's sake. I'm proud of the boy; he's been good to me, and a homeless old woman's grateful for a little kindness. Well, now you know it—and now I ask you again to give up Betty Rantzau; there'll be nothing but trouble come of it, if you go on. And they're fond of each other, I may as well tell you that at once."
"That boy—that boy! It's as I said before; he's been the trouble all along."
"This time, at least, it's for your own good."
"That remains to be seen. But I can't get over that business of the hundred and fifty pounds."
"Say no more about it, Knut Holm."
"And that artful old rascal of a Pettersen; to think I should have wasted a wreath on his grave every blessed year since he died. Eleven wreaths at four shillings a time—true, I left out the ribbon last time, that was so much saved. But he shouldn't have had a single flower out of me, if I'd known."
"Then it's agreed that you let William marry Betty?
"I never said anything of the sort. But the hundred and fifty—my head's all going round. How am I to pay you back again? Really, I'm sorry—you must excuse me...."
And he strode out of the room. Miss Trap sat smoothing out her gloves on the table. Thinking matters over, she came to the conclusion that Holm would give in, but the way did not seem quite clear as yet.
A little later William looked in.
"Has he gone?"
"Just this minute."
"What did he say? Did you manage it, Auntie Trap?"
"He's obstinate, my boy, but I think we shall get him round all right. Your father only wanted to try you, William. He's a strange man, is Knut Holm."
"Do you think that was all it was?"
"Yes, I should say so. He could hardly find a better way of making you serious about it, than by playing the part of a rival."
"Oh, we must have Betty up—we've settled it all between us, now." And before Miss Trap could say a word, he was gone. Two minutes later he came back, leading Betty by the hand.
"This is Auntie Trap—yes, you must call her Auntie now, for it's she that's managed it all. Though it was really only a sort of trial father got up, so Auntie says—he's a wonder, the old man, what?"
"May I call you Auntie as well, Miss Trap? I've never had an aunt myself, and it's nice. Mother and I have always been alone."
"I know, my child. Call me Auntie by all means, and God bless you both. It's all to be for the best. I'm sure father was only wanting to try you. I know Knut Holm of old; he's his own queer ideas at times, but his heart's in the right place."
And she put her arm round Betty's neck and kissed her.
"Lovely it must be for you two young people on the threshold of the promised land. But remember, as you look towards it, that it only comes once in a lifetime—just this one moment, when the mists have cleared away, and the future is bright before you. I wish you happiness, children."
She walked out, erect as ever, but with her wise eyes, as it were, veiled. William and Betty watched her a little way up the street.
They stood hand in hand by the window, looking out over the river; Betty laid her head on his shoulder. Never before had the river and the hillside seemed so beautiful as to-day.
There came into Betty's mind the memories of her childhood, like dark shadows gliding by. The high-walled courtyard in Hamburg and the rooms in a narrow street in Copenhagen stood out clearest of all. She shivered a little, and put her arms round her lover's neck.
"Come, William, let us go and tell mother. She will be so happy."
Everyone knows the great railway station at Clapham Junction just outside London, where so many lines meet and cross, and where trains start for so many different parts.
Our little town, too, had its junction of ways just outside, where the high road branches out into three, each in a different direction. It was the accepted meeting-place for all secretly engaged couples, being a convenient spot that could be reached, accidentally as it were, by two people happening to come along by different routes.
It was Vindt, the humorist, who had christened it Clapham Junction, and he was the first to ferret out the fact that Banker Hermansen and Mrs. Rantzau had been walking together along the road by the shore several mornings in succession.
Vindt went round to the bank on some pretext of business, but really to see if the banker was in a softer mood than usual. After all, the man was no more than human!
But no; there he stood behind the counter, stiff and coldly polite as ever. Nice sort of man for a lover, thought Vindt.
What could the banker and Mrs. Rantzau have in common?
It was not easy to imagine. Some said he was fascinated by her voice, others laid the blame on her black eyes; the fact remained that the pair were more and more frequently together. Vindt had not been down to Holm's for a long time now; he hated the sight of women in business, and that Holm should have been one of the first to introduce a petticoat within the private sanctum among good cigars and vintage port—it was unpardonable. In the present state of things, however, he felt desperately in need of someone to talk to. This affair of Hermansen's was so unparalleled a marvel that he simply must open his mind to someone about it.
He thrust his head in at the doorway, and discovered Holm standing behind the counter.
"All alone, old stick-in-the-mud?"
"Not a soul in the place. Come in. Haven't seen you for ages."
"You've been otherwise engaged. Fair charmer inside there now?" He pointed inquiringly towards the office.
"No, I'm all alone. Come inside, and have a glass of '48 port."
Vindt carefully laid down his heavy, ivory-handled cane, hung his coat and neck wrap over a chair, and stood with his hands in his pockets, facing him.
"Well, and what's the trouble now?" said Holm, struggling with a refractory cork.
"Holm, what do you say: could you imagine me in love?"
"No."
"Well, could you imagine old Hermansen on his knees whispering tender nothings to a woman?"
"What on earth...? Look here. Where have you been to lunch to-day?"
"I haven't been anywhere to lunch. But I'll tell you where I have been: I've been out to Clapham Junction, and seen our banker friend and the Sea Lady...."
"And who?"
"High C Lady; nightingale; your little Donna's mother—Rantzau, isn't it?"
"Hermansen and Mrs. Rantzau?" Holm looked at him earnestly.
"Aha, had an eye on her yourself, what? Well, you've had some experience of widows, so you're not a new hand at the business."
"What's all this nonsense you've got hold of to-day, Vindt?"
"Why, I'm sorry to crush the budding flower of love within your heart, but so it is. You've always come off second-best with Hermansen—and now he's snapped up Mrs. Rantzau under your nose. A marriage has been arranged—etc. etc."
Holm's face was flushed—no doubt with his efforts to open the bottle.
"Come along!" said Vindt. "What about that little drink? I'm sure I want something to console me."
Holm could not get the cork out. He sat down, and was unusually silent.
Vindt began to feel conscience-stricken. Surely Holm had not been in earnest, then?
"Holm! You don't mean to say you're—you're...."
"Hurt, you mean? No, no, my boy—but I've been had all the same.... Well, never mind.What with the Spaniard, and now the widow, I should say he'd soon find he'd got his 'hands full.'"
"Well, here's to the happy pair!"
"Oh, by all means. But can you tell me, Vindt, how he managed it? I'd give five bob to have heard him in the act. Hermansen proposing...."
"Oh, that's easy enough. This is the style." Vindt buttoned up his coat, put his stick under his arm and held his hands behind his back.
"Honoured Madam, allow me to draw upon your indulgence to the extent of craving your protection. I am not altogether a worthless document, have never before been discounted for anyone's account, but have lain untouched as a sole bill of exchange in my portfolio. Having ascertained that you had established yourself here, I ventured, honoured Madam, to apply to you, with a view to learn how far you might be disposed to open a joint account, free of all commission, to our mutual advantage."
"Bravo, Vindt! I'll take my oath it's the first time in his life he's ever done anything free of all commission—poor devil, I declare I'm almost sorry for him myself."
They talked over the affair of the engagement for some time, and Holm grew so thoroughly cheerful after a while that Vindt was convinced his heart was not involved.
"Holm, will you do me a favour?" Vindt judged that Holm was now in the best of tempers, and proposed to utilise the opportunity. He was anxious to lay hands on a couple of hundred pounds. It was worth trying at any rate.
"Well, what is it?"
"Give me your signature on the back of a piece of paper, that's all. A couple of hundred."
"My dear Vindt, I should be sorry to lose an old friend like you."
"Lose an old friend?"
"Why, yes. You see, I've had some experience of backing bills. Take a couple of instances out of many. You remember young Lieberg? Smart, well-got-up young fellow, with a taste for the good things of life, but a trifle thin in the wearing parts. I backed a bill for him, and we were first-rate friends. At the first renewal I had to remind him, with all respect, of the paper's existence, and he was mortally offended—although I offered to lend him interest and payment. And in the end I had to pay up myself. Well, I thought after that he'd look on me as his best friend. Whereas now, when I meet him in the street, he cuts me dead. That's what you get for it!
"Then there was Kautz, the shipowner. He went bankrupt, as you know, and let me in for £800, but in spite of that I signed, and helped him to come to an arrangement. A very nice little piece of business it turned out for him, for the year after he was a richer man than he'd ever been before, and he gave a thundering big party, invited all the town—excepting me!"
"My dear Holm, if it ever should happen to me, I'd take care you were invited too."
"Very good of you, I'm sure. But I'll tell you another little story. Consul Pram was a big man, with a big position, as you know, but a jovial soul, and easy to get on with. I've a liking for men of that sort. Well, it was in 1875, when things were at their worst all round, for shipping and trade and everything else we get our living by. I don't believe there was abusiness in the town that wasn't eternally worried about how things were to turn out.
"Then one day Pram came up to me. 'Puh,' said he, 'it's hot,' and sat down, puffing. It was midsummer and pretty warm.
"'You're right there,' said I, putting away my balance-sheet. I'd just tacked £200 on to the valuation of the premises to make it come out.
"'Times are pretty bad,' said he.
"'Not for a nabob like you, surely,' said I, feeling a bit anxious all the same. There was a matter of £150 between us. And I'd no idea where to rake up any funds beyond.
"'I'm not sure if I'll pull through myself,' said he.
"'Nonsense, Consul—with your credit——'
"'Still....'
"'Hermansen at the bank will let you have all you want.You'resafe enough.'
"'I've lost courage altogether now. It's hopeless to keep going any longer in this place.'
"'But Lord save us, man,youmustn't go under. If you did, there'd be more than myself would have to go too.'
"'Well, you'll have to keep me out then, Holm, that's all.'
"Only fancy me backing a bill for a man like Pram when I was barely hanging on by my eyelids myself.
"Well, it was then the wonderful thing happened. Just in the middle of the day, after Pram had gone, came a letter enclosing £150—anonymous! I've never felt so glad in all my life, Vindt—it was like a message from Providence telling me to keep up my pluck—and Consul Pram as well!
"That afternoon I went round to his office, andbacked a bill for £500. And next day Pram told me, laughingly, that he had got the bank to discount it, and Hermansen had said, 'Shouldn't have too much to do with that Holm if I were you, Pram. Not first-rate paper, really. But of course I'd take anything withyourname on!'
"Some time after I backed another bill for Pram, and helped him in various little ways, for the man was almost out of his senses with worry; I'm sure he'd have gone smash if he'd been left to himself. I met his wife, too, about that time, with the boy. She is a woman of commanding presence, as you know, and handsome, to look at, anyway. She gave me her hand most cordially, and said, 'My sincerest thanks, Mr. Holm, for all you have done for us.I shall never, never forget it.'
"Six months after, the trouble was over, and young Pram was getting up a sledge party, inviting all the young people in the town. Marie's name was on the list. 'No, leave her out,' said his mother. 'He's quite a common person really, is that Holm.'
"And later, I understand, young Pram complained to the bank manager that his father had had dealings some time back with Knut G. Holm—bill transactions, but in future he would not hear of anything of the sort.
"The bank manager had good sense enough to answer that there was hardly any danger now in having dealings with Knut G. Holm!
"Well, my dear Vindt, you can see for yourself that all this doesn't incline one to further obligations. There are one or two honourable exceptions, of course, but as a general rule, I must say, gratitude is a delightful quality, but forgetfulness is far more commonly met with!
"Still, I've never said no to a friend. One must run the risk of losing both friend and money, and if by some miracle both can be kept, why, so much the better. Now, where'syourbill?"
Holm took the document, scrutinised it closely, and said:
"But, my dear man, this isn't for you at all?"
"I didn't say it was."
"Syvertsen—Syvertsen—what's he got to do with it?"
"Well, you see, he's a young man reading for the Church, and consequently in need of cash. So I argued it out like this: an old sinner like myself ought to keep on good terms with the clergy; wherefore I undertook to act as first signatory in the present instance, making myself responsible for the interest. Now I want you to sign as second, guaranteeing the repayments; in consideration of which, you might reasonably demand the services of a priest, free of charge, at your third wedding."
When Vindt had left, Holm fell to pondering over various little circumstances that he had not particularly noticed before. It occurred to him now, that for the last fortnight he had had a message from Mrs. Rantzau almost every day, asking him to come and see her at nine o'clock precisely, on important business!
And, thinking over this, he called to mind that he had on nearly every occasion encountered Hermansen at the same time. It could mean but one thing, she had been using him to bring the banker up to the scratch. Well—much good might it do her! "She'll get a fine husband—oh, a remarkably fine husband," muttered Holm to himself with a sly chuckle.
He walked over to the window and looked across at the bank. It seemed in some curious way to have grown smaller; the great gilt letters, "BANK," above the entrance, were no longer impressive.
Strange, how quiet it was in the shop to-day! Not a sound but Garner counting over the cash, putting the ten-shilling notes in bundles of ten, and the small silver coins in paper rolls.
Miss Rantzau was away, and had not even sent a message.
"Have you seen anything of my son to-day, Garner?"
Garner laughed and showed his teeth. "He—he—no. Isn't he down at the quay, then? No, I don't know...."
Holm perceived that there was something in the wind, and refrained from further inquiries.
A little later the maid came in: would Mr. Holm please come upstairs, there was a lady to see him.
It was Mrs. Rantzau. She was all in black and looked very handsome indeed. Holm could not help admiring her magnificent figure, and thought to himself that Hermansen certainly seemed to have made a better bargain here than recently with the Spaniard.
"I dare say you are surprised to see me here now," Mrs. Rantzau began. "But exceptional circumstances...." she flushed, and broke off in some confusion.
"Heard the news, my dear lady. Congratulations! You've found an excellent husband, a thorough——" he checked himself, hesitating between compliment and sincerity.
"You know my past, Holm, and you will notwonder at my seeking a safe haven after my troubled life—and I hope and believe he will never have reason to regret."
"Indeed not, my dear lady; he's a very lucky man if you ask me. And at his age, too——"
"I don't think he's any older than yourself, Holm," put in Mrs. Rantzau, with a smile.
"Well, perhaps not—but he looks it, anyway."
"There was one thing more, Mr. Holm. My daughter's future is more to me even than my own, and it is chiefly on her account that I have come."
"Aha, I thought as much. So you're in the plot as well, of course?"
"The plot?"
"Yes, itisa plot. First there's William turns as contrary as a rusty lock, then they set Miss Trap on to me, and now it's you!"
"Well—I came to tell you that the two young people love each other. Be good to them, Holm, and you will make your son and my daughter happy together."
"And by doing so I become a sort of relation of—of Banker Hermansen?"
"Well, is there anything wrong in that?"
"Hermansen and I as a sort of—well, what should we be? Can't be each other's half-uncles—twins-in-law. Bless my soul, it's really almost comical!"
"It's a serious matter to me, Holm. My child's future...." There were tears in her eyes as she spoke.
"My dear lady, for Heaven's sake don't let's turn serious. I simply can't stand that sort of wedding-day solemnity, weeping on one another's necks as if it were a funeral. It simply comes to this: I've been had. Well, the only thing to do is to put the best face on it one can."
She held out her hand. "Thanks, Holm. Thanks. I can assure you I shall never forget all your kindness. You are a good man, Holm."
"Thanks for the unsolicited testimonial. Well, I dare say I might be worse. And when it comes to getting out one's final balance-sheet, it's as well to have a little on the credit side here and there."
He walked across to the window and stood for some time without speaking.
"Have you seen William to-day?" he said at last.
"Yes, he came round to see us, and walked back here with me. I expect he's in the office now."
"Well, we'd better have him up, and get the matter settled out of hand at once."
As he was moving towards the door, Bramsen looked in.
"Beg pardon, Mr. Holm," he began, then stopped and stood looking from one to the other. "Er—h'm. Hopes I don't intrude?"
"Not a bit, Bramsen; come in! What's the trouble?"
"Why, 'twas just a bit of a private matter, if...."
Holm went over to him. "Anything wrong, Bramsen?"
"Andrine's come home and chucked the Salvationing business for good and all."
"Why, so much the better."
"Ay, but there's the book...."
"What book?"
"The savings-bank book—she wants it back. And now there's nothing in it, for when I bought the ship, d'you see...."
"We must talk it over later, Bramsen. I'm busy just now."
"Busy, eh? I see," said Bramsen, looking sideways at Mrs. Rantzau. And, lowering his voice, he whispered slyly, "That's a fine one you've got there!" and retired.
"Bramsen," Holm called after him, "tell William to come up, will you? You'll find him in the office."
William came in directly after, went up to his father and took his hand.
"Thank you, father," he said. "I didn't understand at first, but Miss Trap told me all about it. That you only wanted to try us——"
"Eh? Try you? Yes—yes, of course.... Yes, my son; it was—er—it was the only way I could see to make a sensible man of you, and get that artistic nonsense out of your head. Good idea, don't you think? Competition's a good thing all round—checks abnormal fluctuations of the market, you know."
"Father, I'm the happiest man on earth."
"Your respected mother-in-law, I've had the pleasure of meeting her before...."
"Have you, though?"
"Yes—abroad. It's many years ago now," put in Mrs. Rantzau hastily.
"And now, William, you'd better go off and fetch Betty, I think," said Holm. "And we'll have a little party this evening. I hope you will come too!"
"Thank you so much, Mr. Holm; I hope I can. But I must just speak to Alfred first."
"Alfred?"
"My fiancé, Banker Hermansen."
"Oh yes, yes, of course. I really didn't know he had a Christian name—he's always been just Banker Hermansen."
Holm came down into the shop, muttering to himself,"Alfred—Alfred...." until he had to go into his inner office where he could laugh unobserved. Of all the extraordinary things....
He thought of Bianca in the old days, and called to mind the "Carnival of Venice," the little supper at Pfortes—and in the midst of it all loomed the stiff, upright figure and solemn, clean-shaven face of Banker Hermansen.
He had never dreamed of such a marvel, still less expected to meet with it as a reality.
That same afternoon came a card from Hermansen: would be glad if Mr. Holm could find time to come round some time during the day—a private matter. "And if you would not mind coming in by the side door, you will find me alone in the office."
Holm had once before been invited to call upon the banker "privately"—in 1879, when he had been called upon to show his balance-sheet.
The mere thought of it gave him cold shivers even now. A devilish business! And the nasty mean way all his valuations were cut down....
He went in by the side entrance, and noticed how empty and deserted the place looked. The long counter and all the green-covered desks stood as if yawning wearily in the afternoon sun. It was almost uncanny to find everything so quiet.
The banker did not seem to notice his entry at first, but sat intent upon some papers at the big oak table.
"Good afternoon, Banker!"
"Ah, there you are! Forgive my troubling you to come round, Mr. Holm, but...."
He broke off, uncertain how to proceed. The two ancient antagonists exchanged glances.
For the first time in his life Holm felt himself masterof the situation towards Hermansen; this time it was the banker himself who had to show his balance.
"Well, Mr. Holm, I dare say you have heard...."
But Holm ignored the opening. "No, no, my friend," he thought to himself, "you can play your miserable hand alone,I'mnot going to help you out."
"I have committed the indiscretion of—er—becoming engaged," said the banker, with a faint smile.
"Hearty congratulations, my dear Banker," said Holm, offering his hand.
There was a pause, the banker evidently waiting for Holm, with his customary fluency, to break the ice. Here, however, he was disappointed; Holm merely set his teeth and fell to polishing his silk hat on one sleeve. The banker tried again.
"Mrs. Rantzau, my fiancée, has informed me that we shall be—er—in a sort of way related." He smiled invitingly, and thought: he must come round after that.
Holm was a little in doubt how best to proceed now; he was not averse to prolonging the other's awkwardness.
"Highly honoured, I'm sure. Yes, my son has been so fortunate as to gain the hand of—er—your fiancée's daughter. A charming young lady, charming. Takes after her mother." He checked himself; he had said more than he wished.
A long pause.
The banker shifted some books on the table, then suddenly he slipped up to Holm, laid one hand on his shoulder and said:
"We haven't always got on as well as we might together, Holm; circumstances have sometimes been against our friendly co-operation; but don't you think, now, we might forget all that and try to start on a more friendly footing? We're both old enoughnow to be glad of peace and amity, and our new relations ought to bring us closer together—what do you say?"
Holm was quite taken aback; he had never seen the banker in this mood before; the man was positively getting sentimental. He had unbuttoned his coat, and his voice was quite gentle.
"It shan't be my fault if we don't, Hermansen. I'm willing to let bygones be bygones. Time cures all sorrows—patches up a doubtful balance-sheet, as you might say——"
"My dear Holm, pray don't mention it."
"Well, well, it might have been worse—as the auditor said. You're in luck's way, though, Hermansen. I've had the honour of some slight acquaintance with your fiancée in former days."
"No, really! Where did you meet her?"
"Oh, it was some years ago—we met at the house of some mutual friends—abroad. A noble woman, Hermansen, a woman of splendid character."
"One might almost think you'd been my competitor there, Holm, what?" said the banker, with a laugh.
"Why, I won't say but I might have been inclined.... But the lady—er—showed better taste, worse luck," answered Holm, with a bow.
"Thanks for the compliment! You're quite a diplomatist, Holm—I haven't seen you in that rôle before."
Holm put his head on one side and looked at the banker with a quizzical expression.
"Haven't you—though? Not in the little matter of the Spanish frigate?"
"Ah, yes—you had me there, I'm afraid. Very neatly done, though, very neat. There'll be a nice little profit on the repairs, I'm sure—but it's all in the family now."
The conversation was becoming more genial in tone, and when the cigars were lit the two old antagonists were chatting away like the best of friends.
Holm invited the banker to a "little family party" the same evening, to celebrate the double event. Hermansen accepted with thanks, and the pair separated with a cordial shake of the hand.
Holm walked back to the office with his hat at a more than usually rakish angle, as was his way when in high spirits. He swung his stick cheerfully, and felt a comforting sense of superiority in all directions. There was no one to oppose him now.
"Hello, you're looking unusually perky to-day! What's it all about?" This was from Vindt, who was sure to be quick on the scent of anything new.
"I've just come from my so-called brother-in-law, Hermansen, that's all, my boy."
"Oho! Distinguished brother-in-law, what?"
"Well, I'm quite satisfied with him myself. And—er—h'm—he'll be my boy's father-in-law too, you know, in a way."
Vindt stood a moment sniffing at the stump of his cigar, then, thrusting one finger into the buttonhole of Holm's coat, he said solemnly:
"Mrs. Emilie Rantzau anddaughter: Knut G. Holm and son and Banker Hermansen, Knight of the Order of Vasa, etcetera. H'm. That's the worst of these cheap smokes; they stick when you've got half-way. So long, old stick-in-the-mud!"
"Queer old stick," said Holm to himself as the other walked away. "Getting quite crabby of late. But he ought to have married himself long ago."
And Holm went home to make arrangements for a thoroughly festive evening.
It was Sunday. Bramsen and Andrine had had a settling up, the day before, of various matters outstanding, and the savings-bank book had been handed over, with its "Cr. balance 19s. 6½d."—being all that remained from the interregnum period of Bramsen's term of office as Chancellor of the Exchequer.
Andrine opened the book and stood aghast.
"But—but, sakes alive, Paal, where's all the money gone?"
"The money—why—the money—h'm...." And in his embarrassment he looked appealingly at Amanda, who nudged him encouragingly in the ribs and whispered:
"Go on—it's all right. Tell her straight out."
"Why, you see, Andrine, it's like this. When you handed over charge of all this worldly mammon, that's naught but vanity and vexation of spirits and so on, and a clog upon the soul...."
"Oh, leave out all that and say what you've done with the money." Andrine was quivering with impatience.
"Well—I—I bought the ship."
"Ship—what ship?"
"TheErik, 216 ton register, B. I. to 1901, 12½ ft. with full cargo...."
"Overhauled last year," prompted Amanda.
"Heavens! Fool that I was not to have known what you'd be up to. And now here we are as penniless as Adam and Eve."
Andrine held her apron to her eyes, weeping "buckets and hosepipes" as Bramsen later put it to Holm.
Bramsen and Amanda were alarmed at the way she took it, and endeavoured to console her as best they could. Neither said a word as yet about Amanda's engagement; it was plain that to mention it now would bring on a seizure at least.
"Oh—oh—oh, how could I be such a fool!" sobbed Andrine.
"Well, now, to tell the truth, Andrine, I'd never have thought it of you myself, to take up with the like of that nonsense. But seeing we've got you back again now, safe and sound, why, best say no more about it."
"What—whatever did you want to go buying ships for, Bramsen?"
"Why, you see, it was mostly because of Carljohan...." Bramsen in his eagerness had said too much, and Amanda judged it best to disappear into the kitchen for a while.
"Carljohan who?" Andrine stopped crying and looked up sharply.
"Why, Johnsen's son."
"What's he got to do with it?"
"Why, he's a deal to do with it, now he and Amanda's fixed things up together."
"Amanda! That child! And you let them!" Andrine drew herself up impressively, and Bramsen cowered.
"Don't you forget, Andrine," he said, "we weren'tso very old, you and I, when we got spliced together; and he's a first-rate lad. There isn't a knot or a twist he doesn't know, and you should see him up aloft—a cat's not in it. And wrestling too—mark my words, he'll make his way in the world, and I'm sorry for the man that comes athwart him."
"Oh yes, you can talk! But seems to me you've been doing your best to ruin us all while I've been away."
"We're not ruined yet, my girl, nor likely to be, I hope. Just wait and see." And Bramsen patted his wife on the cheek.
Andrine calmed down after a while, and when Amanda came in with steaming coffee and hot cakes, the three sat down in peace and amity, and were soon discussing the excellent qualities of Carljohan and the ship.
"It's been pretty rough these last few days—we'll soon see what she's good for," said Bramsen, thinking of the ship.
"If only they come home safe and sound," sighed Amanda, thinking of Carljohan.
And so, on Sunday morning, behold the three of them walking down to church; neither Bramsen nor Amanda thought of playing truant to-day, so thankful were they to feel that Andrine had "come round" and all was well.
And Bramsen was, to tell the truth, relieved to have got it over. With the bank-book once more in Andrine's care, he felt the responsibility lifted from his shoulders. The reins of government were once more in Andrine's hands, and he had his ten shillings extra per month unbeknown to her as before.
Amanda had always chosen their place in churchup in the gallery close to the pulpit. From here one could see the parson turning the leaves of his sermon, and so calculate roughly how far he was from the end. Furthermore, there was the loveliest view over the harbour and the fjord through one of the big windows.
There had been a number of wrecks during the recent gales, and Amanda could not keep her thoughts from Carljohan and his ship. The voice of the parson, and the singing rang in her ears like the rush of waters; she sat staring blankly at her hymn-book, open at No. 106, though there had been three since that.
Once or twice she woke, to hear her father's voice trailing behind the rest in a hymn, sounding all through the church, till people turned to look. Amanda flushed with embarrassment, but Bramsen went on all unconscious, plodding through each verse in his own time, regardless of the rest.
But always she fell back upon her own thoughts, of the ship and Carljohan; it was a wonder to her how Mother Christiansen, whose husband was also on board, could sit there so calmly, as if there was nothing to fear. And she with all those children to think of!
The sermon now—but Carljohan was out on the North Sea and terrible weather. Great seas breaking over the bows, till the fo'c'stle was almost hidden.
And up in the rigging was Carljohan shortening sail—oh, how the vessel pitched and rolled, till the yards almost touched the water.
If he should lose his hold—if he should be swept away—Amanda gasped at the thought, and clutched her father's hand.
"What is it, Amanda? Are you ill?" whispered Bramsen anxiously.
"No, no; only keep still. I'll be all right directly."
The organ pealed and the sound of the hymn filled the church.
Amanda could not sing a note; she was certain now that something had happened to Carljohan. Her tears flowed in streams, and she was hard put to it to hide them behind handkerchief and book.
She could hear Mother Christiansen's cracked voice just behind, and tried in vain to join in herself.
Already she glanced out of the big window beyond the choir. On the farther side of the harbour lay a vessel at anchor.
But—it had not been there before! Surely ... yes, it was a vessel just in—its flag still flying!—Heavens, it was theErik!
She stood up to make sure. Yes, it was she. It was she! There was the big white figure-head—there was no mistake.
And Amanda joined in the singing with her masterful voice, till those near at hand looked at her in wonder. Bramsen himself stopped singing for a moment to listen. Then he took up the verse again and sang on bravely as before.
There was to be an evening concert at the Assembly Rooms. The local papers for the previous day had leading articles about "Hans Martinsen, the boy musician who has been studying in Christiania, and is now appearing for the first time in public in his native town. Critics from all quarters are unanimously agreed as to his remarkable talent, and already prophesy a brilliant future, though his powers, at this early stage, have naturally not yet attained their full development. It is to be hoped that the music-loving section of our community will be numerously represented, that the promising young artist may receive the support and encouragement he deserves."
The fine hall was splendidly illuminated. The great windows fronting the street shed a glow of light over the crowd of staring idlers outside.
Malla Trap crossed the road, making towards the entrance, but meeting a group of young girls who were admiring the illuminations, she stopped to speak to them.
"Well, children, going to the concert?"
"No—o," answered one or two regretfully, curtsying as they spoke. They knew Miss Trap as a sister at the poor school, which most of them had attended.
"Well, come along, and I'll get you in."
The girls followed delightedly, and Malla Trap took tickets for them all.
Across the bridge came Hans Martinsen, with his mother. On reaching the entrance he had to stop and look round, everyone was nodding and waving to him in kindly greeting.
"Good-day, Hans!" came in a fresh young voice behind him. He turned, and saw a girl smiling and nodding. "I'm coming in to hear you play." And she waved a big yellow ticket.
"Why, surely—is it you, Amanda? How are you getting on?"
"Splendid, thanks. This is Carljohan; he's just come back from a voyage."
"And your father and mother? Give them my love, won't you?"
"Thanks, I will. Oh, but Hans"—she came close to him and whispered—"Dear Hans,doplay 'The Little Fisher-Maid' to please me—will you?"
"I'm not sure if I can, Amanda."
"Oh, of course you can. Why, you played it hundreds of times at old Clemmetsen's."
"Well, I'll see.... But I must go in now. Good-bye."
The great hall was filled to overflowing. All the musical element was present as a matter of course, and in addition a number of those who never went to concerts as a rule, as for instance the Mayor and Broker Vindt, who took seats at the back. Up in the gallery were a number of Hans' old schoolfellows, all greatly excited at the event.
Suddenly the buzz of talk was hushed, and all eyes were turned towards a group coming up the centre of the hall.
It was Banker Hermansen, still and solemn, with Mrs. Rantzau, fresh and smiling, at his side. Behind them walked William Holm and Miss Rantzau, evidently somewhat embarrassed by the general scrutiny.
Holm senior, who was also one of the party, lagged behind a little, stopping to exchange a word with the Mayor and his friend.
Mrs. Rantzau found her place in one of the upper rows, and stood looking down for Holm, beckoning with a smile when she caught his eye. She let her gaze wander over the assembly, and something like a murmur of applause went up. Mrs. Rantzau was undeniably a splendid woman, and was at her best that evening.
"Get along up to the front with you, old fossil," said Vindt, with a friendly nudge, and Holm walked up, nodding genially to acquaintances all round.
"Fine figure of a woman, what?" whispered the Mayor, glancing towards Mrs. Rantzau.
"H'm," said Vindt. "Handsome enough to look at, but a bit of a handful to look after, if you ask me. Like the cakes in a cookshop window—I like 'em, but they don't agree with me!"
There was silence in the hall as the first notes rang out. All were watching the young performer; a little anxiously perhaps, as if in fear lest he should break down. And all felt that in some degree the honour of the town was here at stake, for the boy was one of their own.
But the little figure at the piano sat calm and free from nervousness; he was in another world, where he felt himself at home. The watching eyes and listeningears did not trouble him; he seemed gazing inwardly at a starry sky far above them all.
The music swelled and sank, now wild and furious as the north-east wind raging over the rocky coast in autumn, then gentle as the evening breeze of a summer's day.
Eyes glistened now with fervour, hearts beat proudly. All present seemed to share in his happiness, to have some part in the triumph of his genius.
The applause was hearty and unanimous.
"Bravo, Hans!" came a deep voice from the gallery. All turned to see who had spoken. Ah, there—it was Bramsen, standing up with both hands outstretched and clapping thunderously.
Amanda flushed with embarrassment, and nudged her father to make him stop. But he snapped out impatiently, "You leave me alone!" and went on clapping.
Among the numerous extras was a "Ballad theme with variations," which the more exacting critics considered somewhat out of place. One there was, however, who thought otherwise, and that was Amanda. The soft, swaying rhythm of "The Little Fisher-Maid" filled her with delight, and she clapped as enthusiastically as her father had done.
"Father, I think I've learned something from that concert this evening," said William, as they walked home.
"Well, my boy, and what was that?"
"Why, that genius is like pure gold; if Nature hasn't put it there it's no use trying to make it."
"You're right, my son. And sensible people don'ttry. It's no good setting up to do the work of your Creator. What do you say, Banker?"
"Eh, what's that?" Hermansen was walking arm in arm with Mrs. Rantzau, and the pair of them were evidently oblivious of all but each other.
"I say, the best thing we can do in this life's to live like sensible people."
"Errors and omissions excepted," answered the banker, and he pressed his fiancée's hand long and tenderly.
"This where Petter Nekkelsen lives?"
The speaker was an awkward-looking lad, acting as postman in Strandvik for the first time.
"No, you muddlehead." Old Lawyer Nickelsen held out his hand for the letters. "This is where Peder, comma, N. Nickelsen, full stop, lives. And a nice lot of louts they've got going around, that can't learn to call folk by their proper names!"
Thor Smith, the magistrate's clerk, was of the same opinion, but liked a touch of honest dialect occasionally; he was not unwilling on occasion to contradict Old Nick.
"Honest dialect, indeed! Rank impertinence, I call it! But wait a bit, young fellow; in a few years' time you'll be wishing these understrappers at the North Pole, or some other cool place."
The two men filled their pipes, and took up their position on the veranda of Lawyer Nickelsen's house, continuing their discussion as to the merits of natural simplicity, concerning which they held diametrically opposite views.
The lawyer was a bachelor of sixty-seven, and kept what he called a home for young men of decent behaviour and tolerable manners. In particular he had, ever since he first came to the place forty-three yearsearlier, kept open house for the magistrate's clerks successively, taking them under his paternal care and protection from their first entering on their duties in the town.
Smith and Nickelsen sat on the veranda, but somehow the discussion fell curiously flat. Smith was unusually absent and uncommunicative, to such a degree that Nickelsen at last asked him point blank what was the matter.
"Oh, nothing. H'm. I say, Nickelsen, that fellow Prois—he's an intolerable old curmudgeon."
"Oho, so that's the trouble! Won't have you for a son-in-law, what?"
"Oh, don't talk nonsense."
Smith stepped aside, and scraped out the tobacco from the pipe he had just filled, but Old Nick's searching glance perceived that he had flushed up to the roots of his hair.
"My dear Smith, I agree with you that Tulla Prois is a charming girl. A pity, though, they couldn't find another name to give her. They were making songs about it last winter."
"Oh, don't drag in that silly stuff, Nickelsen, for Heaven's sake. I can't see anything funny in it myself."
Old Nick laid down his pipe and put on his glasses, and sat watching the other with an expression only half serious. He found himself hard put to it not to laugh. At last, finding nothing more suitable to say, he ventured in a tone of unnatural innocence: "Smith, what do you say to a drink?"
Old Nick was irresistible. Smith could not help laughing himself. "Oh, you incorrigible old joker," he said, giving the other a dig in the ribs.
The ice once broken, and under the influence of a glass of good Madeira—Old Nick invariably had "something special" in that line—Smith opened his heart, and revealed Tulla Prois in the leading rôle of Angel, etcetera, Papa Prois being cast for the part of hard-hearted father, or "intolerable old curmudgeon"—which amounted to much the same thing.
"I met him yesterday, just come back from Christiania, with a whole armful of parcels he could hardly carry. I went up as politely as could be, and offered to lend a hand, and what d'you think he said?"
Old Nick shook his head and tried to look interested.
"Shouted out at the top of his voice so all the street could hear him, 'No, I'm damned if you do!' Nice sort of father-in-law that, eh?"
"There's a dance on at the Seamen's Union to-morrow, Smith. You're going, I suppose?"
Smith brightened up at once. "Yes, of course, we must go; you must come along too, Nickelsen. But—but—isn't old Prois chairman of the committee?"
"Quite so—and for that very reason all the more chance of your meeting your—young lady, I was going to say."
"Then you'll come?"
"Me? Go to a dance, with my gout and all? Well, I don't know, perhaps I might. Get myself up spick and span, and have my corns cut specially for the occasion—I might pass in a crowd, what?"
The dance took place, and on the following day Old Nick sat pondering and trying to remember what had happened after twelve o'clock, his memory being somewhat defective.
No—it was no good. He could not remember a thing. He had a vague recollection of talking toTulla Prois, and saying a whole lot of extravagantly affectionate things, but beyond that all was confusion.
"Only hope I didn't make a scene, that's all. H'm—Puh—weakness of mine—infernal nuisance. And I don't seem to get any better—oh, well, what's the odds after all!"
The final note of resignation in his monologue revived his inexhaustible natural good spirits, and with a contented smile he sat down to indite the following letter to Smith, who was, he knew, in court that day: