"'Twas plain to see that Strandvik townLacked neither meatnormirth,The banquet might have brought renownTo any place on earth.The dishes, numbering fourteen,Were rich enough to make,If such his daily fare had been,The Royal tummy ache.And healths were drunk and speeches very wittily were said,And those who had no speech to make, they drank the wine instead.But yet in spite of speeches gayAnd wit and wine, I dare to sayHis Majesty was glad to get away!"
"'Twas plain to see that Strandvik townLacked neither meatnormirth,The banquet might have brought renownTo any place on earth.The dishes, numbering fourteen,Were rich enough to make,If such his daily fare had been,The Royal tummy ache.And healths were drunk and speeches very wittily were said,And those who had no speech to make, they drank the wine instead.But yet in spite of speeches gayAnd wit and wine, I dare to sayHis Majesty was glad to get away!"
Peter Oiland, the new master at the girls' school in Strandvik, was a tall, thin man of about thirty. He had taken a theological degree, and his solemn, clean face gave him a somewhat clerical air; his manner, too, appeared calm and reserved.
"Not much fun to be got out of him, by his looks," said Old Nick, the first time he encountered Peter Oiland's lanky figure and serious countenance on his way up through the town.
It was not from any predilection of his own, however, that Peter Oiland had come to study theology, but a result of circumstances which left him no choice in the matter. His studies had been carried through at the expense of an old uncle, who was parish clerk at Sandefjord, and whose dearest wish it was to see the boy in Holy Orders. Only fancy; to be handing the cassock to a nephew of his own.
Peter, then, had taken his degree accordingly, and endeavoured conscientiously to suit himself as far as possible to the clerical rôle for which he was cast in life; how he succeeded we shall presently see.
His quiet and sober dignity of manner gained him the entry to the Sukkestads' house, where he was soon a frequent guest; not that he found himself particularlyattracted by Sukkestad and his wife, or their severely earnest circle of friends. The attraction, in fact, was Andrea, the daughter of the house and only child, for whom he entertained the tenderest feeling. Andrea was a buxom, pink-and-white beauty of eighteen summers. Her light blue eyes and little stumpy nose were quite charming in their way, while the plait of long, fair hair over the shoulders gave her an air of childish innocence.
In a word, Peter Oiland was desperately in love, while Andrea, who had never before been the object of such attentions, began to lie awake at nights wondering whether he "really meant it." The solution, however, came quite naturally.
Andrea played the piano, and sang touching little songs of the sentimental type, such as "When my eyes are closing," "The Last Rose of Summer," or "The Deserted Cottage"—which transported Peter Oiland to the eighth heaven at least. One evening, when she had finished one of her usual turns, he took her hand and thanked her warmly, pressing it also quite perceptibly—and Andrea, well, she somehow managed to press his quite perceptibly in return—by accident, of course. And then these hand-clasps were repeated, nay, became a regular thing, to such an extent that the pair would press each other's hands when seated on the sofa with Mamma Sukkestad between them. That good lady, however, did not notice, or affected not to notice, these evidences of tender passion taking place behind her back.
Thanks to his intimacy with Sukkestad, and also to his own reputation as a sober and earnest man, Peter Oiland was chosen, after only a couple of months' residence in the place, as one of the two representativesof the town to attend the mission meeting at Stavanger. Sukkestad himself was the other.
On the evening before their departure, he was invited to a party at the Sukkestads', together with the members of the Women's Union.
Peter Oiland had already succeeded in making himself a special favourite with Mrs. Sukkestad, and was on very confidential terms with her; relations, indeed, became quite intimate, when Andrea confided the secret of their mutual feelings to her mother.
After supper, preserved fruit and pastry were handed round, which Peter Oiland inwardly considered a somewhat insipid form of entertainment. He had often felt the lack of a glass of grog on his visits to the house, and this evening he deftly turned the conversation with Mrs. Sukkestad to the subject of "colds," from which he declared himself to be suffering considerably just lately. Mrs. Sukkestad recommended hot turpentine bandages on the chest and barley water internally. Oiland, however, hinted that the only thing he had ever known to do him any good was egg punch. Mrs. Sukkestad, who was one of those stout little homely persons always anxious to help, and with a fine store of household recipes ever available, set to work at once to find some means of getting him his favourite medicine, while Peter coughed distressingly, and screwed up his eyes behind his glasses.
"I tell you what," whispered Mrs. Sukkestad at last. "Sukkestad is an abstainer, you know, so we've never anything in the way of spirits in the house as a rule. But I've half a bottle of brandy out in the pantry that I got last spring when I was troubled with the toothache; I was going to use it for cleaning thewindows, really, but if you think it would do your cold any good, I'd be only too pleased."
"Thanks ever so much, it's awfully good of you," said Peter Oiland hoarsely.
"Well, then, be sure you don't let anyone know what it is. I'll put it in one of the decanters, and say it's gooseberry wine."
"Yes, yes, of course; I understand."
And, shortly after, Peter Oiland was comfortably seated in a corner with a lovely big glass of grog, enjoying himself thoroughly, and, to complete his satisfaction, Andrea sang:
"Thou art my one and only thought,My one and only love...."
"Thou art my one and only thought,My one and only love...."
Peter drank deep of the joy of life, and eke of grog, and Andrea seemed more charming than ever.
Later in the evening he held forth to the ladies—among whom, as above mentioned, were all the members of the Women's Union—about the blacks of the South Sea Islands, and gave so lurid a description of the state of things there prevailing as to make his audience fairly shudder.
"And would you believe it, on one of the islands in the Pacific, a place called Kolamukka, belonging to Queen Rabagadale, they eat roast baby just as we do sucking pig, the only difference being that they don't serve them up with lemons in their mouths."
Sukkestad thought this was going rather too far, and broke in, "Oh, come now, Oiland; you're exaggerating, I'm sure. Thank goodness, all the poor heathens are not cannibals."
"Have to quote the worst examples, to make it properly interesting," said Oiland, which dictum wassupported by Mrs. Writher, who declared that one could not paint these things too darkly; it was hard enough as it was to make people realise the dreadful state of those benighted creatures.
When the guests had left, Mrs. Sukkestad felt some qualms of conscience at the thought of having "served intoxicating liquors" in her house. She lay awake for hours, debating with herself whether she ought to confess at once to her husband. The excuse about having a cold was—well, rather poor after all. Suppose Oiland had a weakness, a leaning towards drink, and she had led him astray! His cough, too, had vanished so quickly, it was suspicious. However, she decided to say nothing for the present.
It was a fine, bright, sunny day when Sukkestad and Peter Oiland, as delegates from Strandvik to the meeting at Stavanger, stepped on board the coasting steamer, which was already half full of delegates with white neckerchiefs and broad-brimmed felt hats.
The smoke-room was thick with the fumes of cheap tobacco and a hum of quiet talk from decent folk in black Sunday coats and well-polished leg boots. A swarthy little commercial traveller, with a bright red tie and waxed moustache, sat squeezed up in a corner puffing at a "special" cigar with a coloured waistband.
Peter Oiland gave a formal greeting to the company assembled as he entered; those nearest politely made way for him.
"It's a hard life, teaching," observed a stout little man with a florid, clean-shaven face and glistening black hair brushed forward over his ears. "Tells on the nerves."
"You find it so?" put in Peter Oiland. "Well,now, it all depends on how you take it—as the young man said when he took a kiss in the dark."
There was a somewhat awkward silence; the company seemed rather in doubt as to the speaker's sympathy with their ideas.
Presently the sea began to make itself felt, and Peter Oiland found occasion to relate the anecdote of the old lady who had been in to Christiania for a new set of false teeth, and, being sea-sick on the way back, dropped them overboard; next day the local papers had an account of a big cod just caught, with false teeth in its mouth!
A smile—a very faint one—greeted the story, and the passengers relapsed into their customary seriousness, not without occasional glances between one and another: what sort of a fellow was this they had got on board?
"H'm!" thought Peter Oiland. "Have another try; wake them up a bit. Must be a queer sort of party if I can't."
Just then Sukkestad appeared in the doorway.
"This way, this way, if you please," shouted Peter gaily. "Gentlemen, my friend and colleague, Bukkestad—beg pardon, Sukkestad; slip of the tongue, you understand. Come along in, old man! Jolly evening we had at your place last night—first-rate fun."
Sukkestad did not know whether to laugh or cry, or take himself off and have done with it. The fellow must be mad!
The commercial, who had been hiding his face behind an old newspaper, burst out laughing, and hurried out on deck.
Peter Oiland settled his glasses on his nose, and went on:
"Smart lot of ladies you'd got hold of, too, Sukkestad; quite the up-to-date sort—eh, what? Ah, you're the man for the girls, no doubt about that."
"Really, Mr. Oiland, I don't know what you mean. Party—girls—I never heard of such a thing."
Peter then fell to telling stories, in the course of which one after another of the delegates disappeared. When he came to the story of the clerk who handed the parson his cassock with the words: "Tch! steady, old hoss, till I get your harness on," the last one left the room; no one was left now but the little commercial, who had found his way back again, and was thoroughly enjoying it all. The sea was calm now, and the moon was up, so the pair seated themselves on deck. And in the course of the evening the delegates below, endeavouring to get to sleep in their respective berths, were entertained by a series of drinking-songs much favoured by the wilder youth of the universities, Peter Oiland singing one part and the commercial traveller the other.
The pair were so pleased with each other's company that the commercial, whose name was Klingenstein—"Goloshes and rubber goods," decided not to land at Arendal as he had intended, but to go on to Stavanger instead. Peter Oiland recommended this course, as offering, perhaps—who could say—an opportunity for getting into touch with the South Sea Islands, and selling goloshes to the heathen.
"As a matter of fact," Peter added, "I know a man in Stavanger who lived some years on one of the South Sea Islands, personal friend of Queen Nabagadale; useful man to know." There was then every reason to believe that Klingenstein might open up a new market in elastic stockings and such like.
The moon went down about midnight, and Peter Oiland thought he might as well do likewise. Thoroughly pleased with himself and all the world, he went below and found his way to his cabin. The upper berth was occupied by a man in a big woollen nightcap. "Evening!" said Peter in the friendliest tone, as he sat down to take off his boot.
"Sir," said the gentleman in the nightcap, "permit me to observe that you might have a little consideration for people who wish to rest."
"Delighted, I'm sure," said Peter. "But what's the matter? Can't you get to sleep? Awful nuisance, insomnia, I know."
"Well, when people are so tactless as to sit up on deck just over one's head, stamping and shouting out ribald songs...."
But before his indignant fellow-passenger could finish his sentence, Peter Oiland was in his berth and snoring—snoring so emphatically, indeed, that he of the nightcap, after having listened to this new melody for three solid hours, got up in despair and went off to lie down on a sofa in the saloon.
Peter Oiland slept like a mummy till ten o'clock next morning, not even waking when the steamer touched at her two ports of call.
Coming on deck, he could not fail to perceive that the other delegates were somewhat cold and reserved in their manner towards him, while as for Sukkestad, he had retired to an obscure corner of the second-class quarters.
"Poor fellow, he's not used to travelling," thought Peter Oiland. "I must go and cheer him up a bit." And he went across to Sukkestad and asked if he didn't feel like something to eat.
Sukkestad was not inclined to be friendly at first, but Oiland took no heed; on the contrary, he took his reluctant colleague by the arm and dragged him off, willy nilly, to the dining-saloon. There was an excellent spread, hot and cold meats, and Peter Oiland's heart warmed at the sight.
Klingenstein was already seated and hard at work on the viands, with serviette tucked under his chin; he rose, however, and bowed in fine style as Oiland made the introduction: "Mr. Krickke—beg pardon, Sukkestad—Mr. Vingentein—er, I should say, Klingenstein." The two new acquaintances looked at one another rather blankly for a moment, then both stared at Oiland, who, however, appeared entirely unconcerned, and fell to with excellent appetite upon a generous helping of steak and onions.
Oiland ordered a bottle of beer and a schnapps, whereat Sukkestad shook his head mournfully, and inquired whether he really thought that was good for his health. Oiland, however, declared it was good for sea-sickness, and he never felt easy on board ship without it.
Sukkestad grew thoughtful. What would happen when they got to Stavanger? He wished he could get out of it somehow, and go back home again.
At last the voyage was over, the two delegates went ashore and put up at the Hotel Norge.
The first thing Sukkestad noticed, on coming down into the hall, was the name "Plukkestad" written on the board against the number of his room. This was too much; he rubbed out the offending letters with his own hand, and wrote instead, with emphatic distinction, "C. A. Sukkestad." He strongly suspected Oiland of being the culprit; he had gonedownstairs a few minutes before, but having no proof he preferred to say nothing about it.
Sukkestad was now thoroughly ill at ease; his one constant thought was to find himself safely home again without any scandal. He saw little of Oiland the first day; the schoolmaster had hired a carriage and set off round the town to see the sights. In the evening, Oiland asked how the meeting had gone off that day, and if anyone had noticed his absence. Sukkestad answered emphatically, "No," inwardly hoping that Peter would not appear at the meetings still to come.
"Well, I think I've seen about all there is to see in this old place—Harbour, Cathedral, Town Hall, Mirror House, and statues of famous men—done it pretty thoroughly, I should say."
At the meeting on the following day Peter turned up, and astonished the assembly by delivering a long harangue on "The Civilising Influence of Missionary Work." Sukkestad nearly fainted.
Peter's speech produced a great effect, the listeners growing more and more interested as he went on. "Who is he—what's his name? You've got a regular speaker there, Sukkestad." Sukkestad was utterly at a loss, but vowed never again to expose himself to such surprises, either of one sort or the other.
At last the conference was ended, and the two delegates from Strandvik set out for home.
It was with great relief that Sukkestad found himself on board the steamer; Peter might do what he pleased now, for all he cared. As it turned out, however, Peter was amiability itself towards his travelling companion, though the latter did not seem to appreciate his attention, but endeavoured to keepto himself—a matter of some difficulty on board a small steamboat. An hour before they got in to Strandvik, Oiland came up to him and begged the favour of a "serious word" with him. Sukkestad wondered what on earth was coming, as the other took him by the arm and dragged him off to the forepart of the ship.
"I have had the pleasure of being a frequent guest in your house," Peter began, buttonholing Sukkestad as if to make sure he did not escape.
"I shouldn't have thought it could be any pleasure to you," put in Sukkestad dryly.
"It has indeed, my dear fellow; and I have the more reason to say so, since your daughter Andrea——"
"What?"
"Forgive my saying so, Mr. Sukkestad, but your daughter has made a deep impression on me."
"Really, Mr. Oiland, this...." Sukkestad trembled at what was to come.
"A deep impression on me. And I think I may venture to say that she herself——"
"Pardon me, Mr. Oiland. My daughter has no feelings in any matter before consulting her father's wishes."
"Oh, but she has, my dear father-in-law, I assure you."
"Father-in-law Mr. Oiland, this is most unseemly jesting." Sukkestad tried to break away, but Peter held him fast.
"But, my dear sir, what objection can you have to the match? We've always got on splendidly together, and I'm sure this present voyage, and our little adventures on the way, will always be among our most cherished memories—won't they, now?"
"Oh, this is too much! I would recommend you, Mr. Oiland——"
"Most kind of you. I was sure you would. And I'm quite an eligible suitor, really, you know. Got my degree—rather low on the list, I confess, but, anyhow.... I ought to tell you, though, that I don't propose to enter the Church."
"Something to be thankful for at least," said Sukkestad.
"So glad you agree with me. Delighted, really. Well, my dear fellow, I can understand you're a little overwhelmed just at the moment, but we can settle the details when we're at home and at leisure. We're agreed on the essential point, so that's all right."
Oiland let go his hold, and Sukkestad hurried off to his cabin and began getting his things together in feverish haste. What, give his daughter, his only child, to a fellow like that? Never!
They got in without further event, and parted on the quay, Oiland shaking hands fervently with a hearty "Thanks for your pleasant company," while Sukkestad murmured absently: "Not at all, not at all."
Sukkestad had hardly got inside the house when Andrea came rushing up to him. "Oh, wasn't it a lovely speech of Oiland's? The parson's just been in and told us; simply splendid, he says it was."
"Well, my child, that's a matter of opinion."
"Oh, father, you're always so severe," said Andrea, turning away with tears in her eyes.
A quarter of an hour later Sukkestad and his wife were unpacking in the bedroom, and a serious conference took place between the two. He recounted Oiland's behaviour on the voyage. "And I do hope things haven't gone so far between them as he says," observed Sukkestad sternly, with a meaning glance at his wife. The latter turned away, wiping her eyes ona corner of her apron, and sniffing the while. "Marie, you don't mean to say you've been a party to it yourself?"
"I—yes—no, that is—— Oh, don't be angry with me. I did think he was such a nice man, really I did."
"Well, we must see what can be done," said Sukkestad.
That evening it was decided that Andrea should be sent as a Warder to the Moravian Mission at Kristiansfeldt.
Andrea wept bitterly, but to no purpose; she had to go, whether she liked it or not.
Peter Oiland came several times to the house, but got no farther than the doorstep; the maid invariably greeted him with the words: "Mr. Sukkestad's compliments, sir, but he's not at home."
On the occasion of his last attempt before Andrea's departure, he had just got out of the gate when he heard the drawing-room window open, and Andrea's well-known voice singing:
"Thou are my one and only thought,My one and only love...."
"Thou are my one and only thought,My one and only love...."
He stopped and looked up, but saw only the stern countenance of Papa Sukkestad hastily closing the window, and the music ceased abruptly.
It was quite enough for Peter, however, and he walked home gaily, confident now that all would go well.
Andrea went off without having spoken to Oiland, but the post was busy between Strandvik and Kristiansfeldt, for letters passed daily either way—while Mrs. Sukkestad went about complaining that Andrea never wrote home.
Old Marthe Pettersen, who had been housekeeper to Old Nick for nearly thirty years, had taken pneumonia and died a fortnight after Christmas; she had at least chosen a convenient time, having made all culinary preparations for the festival beforehand.
Old Nick was inconsolable, for Selma Rordam, whom he had got in as a temporary help, was hopelessly incapable; either the cod would be unsalted and insipid or she would serve it up in a liquor approaching brine, not to speak of throwing away the best parts, and boiling the roe to nothing. And last Sunday's joint of beef had been so tough that he had seriously considered sending it in to the Society for Preservation of Ancient Relics. His breakfast eggs were constantly hard boiled, despite his ironic inquiries as to whether she thought he wanted them for billiard balls. And as for sewing on buttons—for the past fourteen days he had been reduced to boring holes in the waist of his trousers and fastening them with bits of wood. Everything was going wrong all round.
"Very inconvenient, yes," said Nachmann, called in to discuss the situation. "But you'll see it'll come all right in time. Now you take my advice and advertise in the papers for someone; she's sure tocome along: 'Wanted, an ideal woman, to restore domestic bliss.'" The pair sat down accordingly to draft out an advertisement, each to write one out of his own head.
Nachmann's, when completed, ran as follows:
"Matrimonial."Bachelor, middle-aged, no children, would like to make acquaintance of an educated lady of suitable age—widow not objected to. Must be accustomed to domestic duties and of bright and cheerful temperament. Private means not so essential as amiability. Reply to 'Earnest,' office of this paper."
"Matrimonial.
"Bachelor, middle-aged, no children, would like to make acquaintance of an educated lady of suitable age—widow not objected to. Must be accustomed to domestic duties and of bright and cheerful temperament. Private means not so essential as amiability. Reply to 'Earnest,' office of this paper."
Old Nick tore up this effusion, and inserted his own, which said:
"Housekeeper."Lady, middle-aged, thoroughly capable cook and housekeeper, wanted for elderly gentleman's house in seaport town. Remuneration by arrangement; ability and pleasant companionship most essential. Particulars to 'Cookery,' c/o this paper."
"Housekeeper.
"Lady, middle-aged, thoroughly capable cook and housekeeper, wanted for elderly gentleman's house in seaport town. Remuneration by arrangement; ability and pleasant companionship most essential. Particulars to 'Cookery,' c/o this paper."
During the week that followed Old Nick was positively inundated with applications. There were cook-maids, hot and cold, with years of experience at first-class hotels; reliable women from outlying country districts; widows from small townships up and down the coast; while a "clergyman's daughter, aged twenty-three," who already considered herself middle-aged, gave Old Nick some food for thought.
Among all these various documents, some large, and small, and bold, others timidly small, was a little pinkenvelope addressed in a delicate hand. The letter contained, ran as follows:
"Dear Sir,—In reply to your advertisement in to-day's paper I venture to offer my services as housekeeper. I am a widow without encumbrance, age thirty-seven, with long experience of keeping house, and able to undertake any reasonable work desired."I am of a bright and cheerful temper, with many interests, musical, good reader, and would do my utmost to make your home pleasant and comfortable in every way."Trusting to be favoured with a reply, when further particulars can be forwarded.—I beg to remain, yours very truly,"Emilie Rantzau."
"Dear Sir,—In reply to your advertisement in to-day's paper I venture to offer my services as housekeeper. I am a widow without encumbrance, age thirty-seven, with long experience of keeping house, and able to undertake any reasonable work desired.
"I am of a bright and cheerful temper, with many interests, musical, good reader, and would do my utmost to make your home pleasant and comfortable in every way.
"Trusting to be favoured with a reply, when further particulars can be forwarded.—I beg to remain, yours very truly,
"Emilie Rantzau."
Old Nick sat for a long while staring thoughtfully before him.
"Widow, thirty-seven, long experience of keeping house, bright and cheerful temper.... I tell you what, Nachmann, this looks like what we want."
"Heavens, man, but she's musical—what do you want with that sort of thing in the house? No, no, my friend; the devil take that widow for his housekeeper—not you. She'd play you out of house and home in no time, my boy."
"Well, you know, really, I was getting a bit sick of old Marthe. Felt the lack of refined womanly influence now and again. And I must say this—what's her name—Emilie Rantzau rather appeals to me. There's something, I don't know what to call it, about her letter. Sort of ladylike, you know."
"Yes, and perfumed too, lovely, m-m-m. Patchouli!" said Nachmann, holding the envelope to Nickelsen's nose.
After some further deliberation Old Nick wrote to Mrs. Emilie Rantzau, and learned that she was the widow of a Danish artist, had spent many years abroad, and wished now to find a position in some small town where she could live a quiet, retired life, occupied solely with her duties.
Her letters were so frank and sincere, that they made quite an impression on Old Nick, and he decided to engage her. She was to come on Saturday, and on the Friday before, Nickelsen did not go to his office at all, but stayed at home, going about dusting the rooms with an old handkerchief.
Thinking the place looked rather bare, he obtained a big palm and an indiarubber plant to brighten things up a little.
He was queerly nervous and ill at ease every day, with a feeling as if some misfortune were on the way. What would she be like, he wondered? If the experiment turned out a failure, there would be an end of his domestic peace. Perhaps after all he would have done better to stick to the Marthe type....
They were seated at dinner, and her fine dark eyes played over his face.
"No, you must let me make the salad. I promise you it shall be good." And she took the bowl, her soft, delicate hand just touching his as she did so.
Old Nick murmured something politely, and was conscious that he flushed up to the roots of his white mane.
"Queer sort of woman this." It was on the tip of his tongue to say it aloud, but he checked himself in time. The joint was served, and for the first time in his life he forgot to pick out the marrow. Fancy forgetting that! In old Marthe's time he invariably sent for toast, and a spoon to get it out with; now hesat attentively listening to Mrs. Rantzau's stories of the theatre in Copenhagen.
"Very nice claret this of yours, Mr. Nickelsen. I know '78 is supposed to be the best—good body they say. Funny, isn't it, to talk of wine having a body."
She looked across at him with a smile, showing two rows of fine white teeth. Then, rising, she went over to the sideboard to show him that she too knew how to carve a joint. Old Nick took advantage of the opportunity to observe her more closely.
Dark, glistening hair, tied in what is called a Gordian knot at the back, with a tiny curl or so lower down, and a beautiful white neck. She was not tall, but her figure was well rounded, and the close-fitting dark dress showed it off to perfection.
Old Nick was so intent in studying her that he had not time to look away before she turned round and laughingly exclaimed:
"Well, are you afraid I shall spoil the joint?"
"No, indeed; I see you are an expert at carving."
In his confusion he upset the sauce tureen. But Mrs. Rantzau laughed heartily, holding his arm as she declared she must evidently have brought misfortune in her train.
Old Nick had been rather uneasy at the thought of what to say to her, but she made conversation so easily herself that he had only to put in an odd remark here and there: "Yes, of course, yes." "No, indeed." "Exactly."
In the evening Thor Smith, Nachmann and Warden Prois came round for their weekly game of cards. They were all remarkably punctual to-day: the clock had not struck seven before all three were in the hall, and all with unfeigned curiosity plainly on their faces.
"I'm dying to see how the old man gets on with this gay widow," said Thor Smith, touching up his hair and tie before the glass—a nicety he had never troubled about on previous visits to Old Nick.
Red paper shades had been put on the lamps, and the table was fully laid with tea-urn, cups and saucers, cakes and little fringed serviettes.
Old Nick, in a black frock-coat, advanced ceremoniously towards them; he said very little, however, and seemed generally rather ill at ease.
"Rather a change this," thought Warden Prois. He was more accustomed to finding Old Nick on such occasions in dressing-gown and slippers, with his old rocking-chair drawn up, and his feet on the table. Then, when he heard his visitors arrive, he would send a gruff hail to the kitchen: "Marthe, you old slow-coach, hurry up with that hot water, or I'll...." But to-day he was as polished and precise as an old marquis.
Prois glanced over towards Nachmann, and Thor Smith in despair picked up an ancient album that he had seen at least a hundred times before; the only pictures in it were portraits of the former parson, and of Pepita, a dancer, who had adorned the stage some forty years earlier, when Old Nick was young.
Then Mrs. Rantzau came in. She wore a black velvet dress, with a little red silk handkerchief coquettishly stuck in the breast.
Old Nick introduced them. She was certainly handsome, as she greeted each of the guests with a kindly word and a smile.
Tea was served, and she handed a cup to Smith and one to Prois. Nachmann had retired to the farthest corner of the sofa, as if on his guard.
She held out a cup towards him. "Mr. Nachmann, a cup of tea now?"
"Excuse me, I can drink most things made with water, including soda, potash and Apollinaris, but tea—no. It affects my nerves. Mr. Prois, now, is a confirmed tea-drinker; he'll have two cups at least, I'm sure."
Prois gave a furious glance at Nachmann, and struggled desperately with some sort of cake with currants in, and these he managed to spit out on the sly, hiding them in his waistcoat pocket.
At last the toddy and the cards appeared. Mrs. Rantzau sat close at hand, working at her embroidery, a large piece of canvas with a design representing Diana in the act of throwing a big spear at a retreating lion.
Nachmann, the only one who had retained his self-possession, was master of the situation.
"Now, what's that supposed to be, may I ask?"
"Oh, you can see, Mr. Nachmann. I'm sure it's plain enough."
"Well, now, honestly, my dear lady, I should say that Diana there is the very image of your charming self, and the terrified animal in the corner looks remarkably like our host. I do hope you'll be careful with that spear!"
Mrs. Rantzau was plainly offended, and gave him a sharp glance of reproof from her dark eyes.
"Ah, now you're angry, I can see. But really it was quite innocently meant."
Mrs. Rantzau rose and left the room hastily. There was an awkward pause, until Thor Smith took up the cards and began to shuffle.
"Water isn't hot," muttered Old Nick, clasping both hands about the jug.
"Only wait a little, old boy, and you'll find it hot enough, or I'm much mistaken. Ah, well, such is life without a wife.... Here, I say, where's your head to-night, Nickelsen. Bless my soul, if you haven't given them the game!"
Old Nick complained of headache that evening, and the party broke up earlier than usual. So early, indeed, that Thor Smith had scarcely finished his first glass, or the first cataract, as he called it, whereas ordinarily the third would be reached and passed in the course of the evening's play.
The three friends walked home together, all very serious, and greatly troubled in mind as to Old Nick's future.
Prois in particular took a most gloomy view. "It's a dangerous age for that sort of thing; comes on suddenly, before you know where you are." He was thinking of his own experiences in that direction; it was only four years since he had been wild to marry that young governess at the Abrahamsens', the disaster, however, being fortunately averted by the intervention of Pedersen, the telegraphist, who cut in and won her before he, Prois, had screwed himself up to the question.
Old Nick hardly knew the place again when he came down to breakfast next morning, to find Mrs. Rantzau presiding at table in a pink morning-gown and dainty shoes. The walls were decorated with Chinese paper fans in flowery designs, and Japanese parasols; the sofas had been moved out at all angles about the room. A big palm waved above his writing-table, and all the papers on it were neatly arranged in two piles of equal size, one on either hand.
At sight of this his blood began to boil; his writing-table was sacred; no human hand but his own hadtouched it for the past forty years. Old Marthe herself, when dusting the room, had been as shy of coming near it as if it had been a red-hot stove. Nevertheless, Old Nick found himself unable to say a word; Mrs. Rantzau's smile and her dark eyes threw him into utter confusion.
One day, happening to come in for some papers, he found her in the act of taking the documents of a case pending—"Strandvik Postal Authoritiesv.Holmestrand Town Council"—to clean the lamps with. But here he was obliged to put his foot down and protest. If he could not trust his papers to be left in safety on his table, why, he might as well move out of the house.
Mrs. Rantzau looked at him with great imploring eyes, and was so contrite; he must forgive her, she was so dreadfully stupid; she had no idea that papers could be so important.
Old Nick could not help smiling, and peace was restored, on condition that for the future only newspapers should be used for cleaning purposes. This naturally led to Old Nick's finding the one particular journal he wanted to read after dinner had been sacrificed.
She was undeniably handsome, however, especially in that pink morning-gown as she sat at the breakfast-table, while Old Nick revived his early memories and endeavoured to play the youthful cavalier.
Friends of the house were soon thoroughly convinced that Old Nick was done for; the widow had captivated him beyond recall. Thor Smith, thinking a warning might yet be in time, sent him anonymously the following lines:
"Be careful of taking a widow to wife,She'll lighten your purse and burden your life."
"Be careful of taking a widow to wife,She'll lighten your purse and burden your life."
Nickelsen, however, recognised the writing, and promptly sent back a reply:
"Best thanks for your advice, my friend,'Twas really kind of you to send;But still, considering whence it came,I can manage without it all the same.So keep your triplets, one—two—three,A widow without is enough for me!"
"Best thanks for your advice, my friend,'Twas really kind of you to send;But still, considering whence it came,I can manage without it all the same.So keep your triplets, one—two—three,A widow without is enough for me!"
A grand ball was to be held at the Town Hall, in aid of the Fund for National Defence. Old Nick had no intention of going himself, but Mrs. Rantzau pointed out that it was his duty, as a loyal and patriotic citizen, to attend. Accordingly, albeit not without considerable hesitation, he decided to go. She tied his dress-bow for him, and put a red rosebud with a tip of fern in his buttonhole. She herself, with Old Nick in attendance, sailed into the ballroom like a queen, with pearls in her hair, and her dark blue silk dress fitting like the corslet of a Valkyrie.
The company made way for her involuntarily, and she was placed at the upper end of the hall, between Mrs. Jansen and Mrs. Heidt. The last named lady, who was ceremonious and reserved by nature, besides being conscious of representing the aristocracy of the town, was chilliness itself towards this newly risen star. Mrs. Jansen, on the other hand, a kindly soul, felt obliged to show her some little attention, and introduced her to a number of those present.
Dr. Stromberg, a middle-aged bachelor, had the reputation of falling in love with every new specimen of the fair sex he encountered. True to his character, he at once attached himself to Mrs. Rantzau, whose conquest of Strandvik was thus begun.
Old Nick sat in a corner talking to Winter, theCustoms Officer, his eyes incessantly following the blue silk gown as it passed. His old heart was so restless and unruly, he began to wonder seriously if something had gone wrong with the internal mechanism. Cards, drinks, old friends, all were forgotten that evening he had no thought but for that figure in the blue silk dress that was ever before his eyes. He had experienced hallucinations before, when things seemed to dance round and round, but to-night, with nothing stronger than soda water—neat—it was past all comprehension.
In a circle of men, old and young, stood Emilie Rantzau, smiling and alert. She was sought after at every dance, until Mrs. Thor Smith, née Tulla Prois, observed indignantly that one might think the men had never seen a woman from another town before—and Heaven only knew what sort of a creature this one was. Mrs. Jansen herself began to be rather uneasy, when she saw her husband lead out the widow as his partner for the lancers—or "lunchers" as Cilia Braaten called it. And matters were not improved when the Consul started talking French with Mrs. Rantzau at supper, of which his wife did not understand a word.
"She's charming, my dear, a most interesting woman, and speaks French like an educated Parisienne," said Jansen to his wife.
Poor Mrs. Jansen was beginning to experience the pangs of jealousy, and determined to purchase aFrench made Easythe very next day.
"Bless my soul, if there isn't Justice Heidt asking the angelic widow for a dance," exclaimed Thor Smith, pulling Nachmann by the sleeve.
"Angelic widow's good," said Nachmann. "Butthere's angels and angels, you know. And they'd have to be a bit on the dusky side to pair off with Old Nick, what?"
Mrs. Heidt got up and went into an adjoining room, sending her husband a glance as she passed which sobered him considerably for the moment. It was not long, however, before the brilliant dark eyes had made him forget both his dignity and his domestic obligations.
Old Nick was very taciturn that evening as he walked home with Mrs. Rantzau. She, however, laughed and joked, and told stories of "all those silly old men" with such wit and good humour that he was forced to admit it would have been a pity not to have gone to the ball. "Yes, a very jolly evening; very nice indeed, yes."
On the following day the "angelic widow" and her conquests at the ball were the general topic of conversation. The ladies, old and young, married and the reverse, agreed that she was detestable, and were sure there must be something "queer" about her. Mrs. Heidt and Mrs. Knap had a two hours' consultation together, at the end of which it was decided that no effort should be spared to check "that woman's" further encroachment upon local society.
All the men, with exception of Thor Smith and Nachmann, were enthusiastic in praise of the new arrival, and her popularity on that side was assured.
Emilie Rantzau, however, had her own plans, and let people talk as they pleased.
One day she astonished Mrs. Jansen by calling on her with a proposal that the ladies of the town should get up a bazaar in aid of the Seamen's Families ReliefFund. On another occasion she went to Mrs. Heidt, and begged her to support the National Women's Movement; she also invited Governor Abrahamsen to help start a society for helping ex-convicts to turn over a new leaf. Even Klementsen was urged to help her in getting up a subscription for a new altar-piece.
In addition to these more or less philanthropic movements, she arranged excursions to the country round, the beauties of which, she declared, were not appreciated as they should be, and further, obtained the assistance of Consul Jansen in forming a Society for the Furtherance of the Tourist Traffic in Strandvik and Neighbourhood.
The Consul was delighted with the idea, and vowed he must have been blind not to have discovered earlier the natural beauties of the neighbourhood. He gave a grand champagne supper and proposed Mrs. Rantzau's health in a speech, concluding by comparing that lady to "a breath of ocean fresh and free." The toast was received with acclamation.
Altogether, the upper circles of Strandvik society were thrown into a state of unprecedented excitement and activity.
Mrs. Heidt, Mrs. Knap and Mrs. Abrahamsen vied with one another in their efforts to outdo Mrs. Rantzau; they would show her at least that they were as good as she.
It was a fight to the bitter end.
Societies were started, with "evenings" after, where Emilie Rantzau's plans were discussed.
Mrs. Heidt thought and thought till she grew giddy and had to have hot fomentations of an evening; the unusual mental effort had brought on insomnia.Sukkerstad hoped to find in Mrs. Rantzau an ally to the cause of temperance, and paid her a ceremonial call, in company with Watchmaker Rordam, who, a short while back, had suddenly joined the Temperance Association, "Strandvik's Pride." And the pair of them explained to her, with all the eloquence at their command, how greatly her patronage would be appreciated by all.
Emilie Rantzau, however, hardly thought her own interests in the town would be greatly furthered by closer association with Sukkerstad and his circle; on the other hand, it was just as well to keep on good terms with all sections of local society. She therefore informed the deputation that she would think over the matter, and assured them meanwhile of her earnest sympathy with the good cause.
The same day she hurried up to Consul Jansen, switched on her eloquent dark eyes, and suggested that the Temperance Movement was one they ought to support, but that the best way of doing so would be to get up a little subscription, and raise enough for an excursion—a steamer trip for the afternoon, with tea and lemonade. "It would look well, you know, and all that—and get them off our hands for a bit," she added meaningly.
No one could refuse her, and in the course of one afternoon she managed to collect eight pounds, which she dispatched to Sukkerstad and Rordam for the purpose indicated. Sukkerstad was so enthusiastic in his appreciation that he determined to convene a meeting of the committee and propose a vote of thanks and an address.
All the members turned up, with the exception of Rordam, who, in his joy at the eight pounds, had givenway to a sudden relapse, which rendered him incapable of further temperance work for the time being.
After some discussion, the committee decided to purchase a portrait of Mrs. Rantzau from the photographer, and hang it up in their hall; this was voted preferable to the address.
Mrs. Heidt was beginning to lag behind; it was impossible to keep pace with a woman of such untiring energy and initiative as Mrs. Rantzau.
Four ladies were gathered one day in her drawing-room, to talk over what was to be done; they could not suffer themselves to be set aside like this. What they wanted was some grand idea, something to vanquish the enemy at a single blow, and show the rest of the town that Emilie Rantzau was not wanted.
It was Mrs. Knap who had the happy thought—the Peace Movement. The cause of universal peace was surely one which nobody in Strandvik could refuse to aid.
Mrs. Abrahamsen was more inclined to concentrate on a bazaar and lottery in aid of the proposed crematorium, which institution she regarded as most desirable from the humane, the sanitary and various other points of view.
Mrs. Knap protested energetically against the idea; she had recently had an accident with a box of matches, which had gone off suddenly and burnt her hand. She for her part would have nothing more to do with burning—for the present, at any rate.
Finally, after some heated argument, it was agreed that a grand harvest festival should be held, the proceeds to be devoted to the cause of universal peace.
Emilie Rantzau was to be kept out of it altogether;they would not have her help in the arrangements, not a contribution—not so much as a bunch of flowers was to come from her; it was to be a festival "for ourselves and by ourselves." The old ladies were already triumphant; this intriguing minx, this person from nowhere, who had tried to force herself into society, should be made to feel their power and her own insignificance. The festival was to be held in the park on Sunday, from five to nine; there would be illuminations, coloured lanterns, fireworks and so on. Singing,—male and female choir,—lecture by a Professor from Christiania, recitation by a famous actor, solos by an amateur and an "amatrice"—it was a programme so magnificent that the whole town was amazed.
Meantime, Mrs. Rantzau sat quietly at home, in her pink morning-gown, pouring out coffee for Nickelsen. She was very quiet and gentle in manner—there was a curious atmosphere about the situation generally.
There lay the morning papers, white, uncrumpled, untouched. The coffee now seethed gently in little regular gasps, like a school-mistress out on a mountaineering expedition; the sun peeped in through the windows, casting gay gleams over Old Nick's white mop of hair and Emilie's raven locks.
"Why shouldn't I be happy the few years I've still to live? And who is to have my money when I'm gone?" Old Nick sat staring absently before him.
She bent over towards him, handing his cup; he felt her soft, curling tresses close to his cheek, and her hand just touched his own.
"Mrs. Rantzau!" he exclaimed, flushing as he spoke; his voice was unsteady.
"Why, how serious you are all of a sudden! Youquite frightened me," she said, with a laugh, looking up at him innocently.
"Mrs. Rantzau," he began again, "do you know that poem of Byronson, that—that begins: