No, Rolandsen did not wait a minute; he knew his Jomfru van Loos, and had no doubt as to what she wanted. Rolandsen was not easily persuaded to anything he did not care about himself.
A little way along the road he met a fisherman who had come out too late to be present at the arrival. This was Enok, a pious, inoffensive man, who always walked with downcast eyes and wore a kerchief tied round his head for earache.
“You’re too late,” said Rolandsen as he passed.
“Has he come?”
“He has. I shook hands with him.” Rolandsen passed on, and called back overhis shoulder, “Enok, mark what I say.I envy that man his wife!”
Now saying a foolish and most improper thing like that to Enok was choosing the very man of all men. Enok would be sure to bring it about.
Rolandsen walked farther and farther along by the wood, and came to the river. Here was the fish-glue factory, owned by Trader Mack; some girls were employed on the place, and it was Rolandsen’s way to chaff them as often as he passed. He was a very firebrand for that, and none could deny it. Moreover, he was in high spirits to-day, and stayed longer than usual. The girls saw at once that he was splendidly in drink.
“You, Ragna, what d’you think it is makes me come up here every day?” says Rolandsen.
“I don’t know, I’m sure,” says Ragna.
“Oh, you think, of course, it’s old Mick.”
The girls laughed at that. “Old Mick, ha, ha! Old Nick, he means.”
“It’s for your salvation,” says Rolandsen. “You’d better take care of yourself with thefisher-lads about here; they’re a wicked lot.”
“Wicked, indeed! And what about yourself, then?” says another girl. “With two children of your own already. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
“Ah, Nicoline, now how can you say such a thing? You’ve been a thorn in my heart and near the death of me for more than I can say, and that you know. But as for you, Ragna, I’m going to see you saved, and that without mercy.”
“You go and talk to Jomfru van Loos,” says Ragna.
“But you’ve desperate little sense,” Rolandsen went on. “Now those fish-heads, for instance. How long do you steam them before you screw down the valve?”
“Two hours,” says Ragna.
Rolandsen nods to himself. He had reckoned that up and worked it out before. Ho, that firebrand Rolandsen, he knew well enough what it was took him up to the factory every day, chaffing the girls and sniffing about all the time.
“Don’t take that lid off, Pernille,” he cried suddenly. “Are you out of your senses, girl?”
Pernille flushes red. “Frederik he said I was to stir it round,” she says.
“Every time you lift the lid, some of the heat goes out,” says Rolandsen.
But a moment later, when Frederik Mack, the trader’s son, came up, Rolandsen turned off into his usual jesting tone once more.
“Wasn’t it you, Pernille, that was in service at theLensmand’sone year, and bullied the life out of everyone in the place? Smashing everything to bits in a rage—all barring the bedclothes, perhaps.”
The other girls laughed; Pernille was the gentlest creature that ever lived, and weakly to boot. Moreover, her father was organ-blower at the church, which gave her a sort of godliness, as it were.
Coming down on to the road again, Rolandsen caught sight of Olga once more—coming from the store, no doubt. She quickened her pace, hurrying to avoid him; it would never do for Rolandsen to think she had been waiting about for him. But Rolandsen had no such idea; he knew thatif he did not catch this young maid face to face she would always hurry away and disappear. And it did not trouble him in the least that he made no progress with her; far from it. It was not Olga by any means that filled his mind.
He comes home to the telegraph station, and walks in with his lordliest air, to ward off his assistant, who wanted to gossip. Rolandsen was not an easy man to work with just at present. He shut himself up in a little room apart, that no one ever entered save himself and one old woman. Here he lived and slept.
This room is Rolandsen’s world. Rolandsen is not all foolishness and drink, but a great thinker and inventor. There is a smell of acids and chemicals and medicine in that room of his; the smell oozed out into the passage and forced every stranger to notice it. Rolandsen made no secret of the fact that he kept all these medicaments about solely to mask the smell of the quantities ofbrændevinhe was always drinking. But that again was Ove Rolandsen’s unfathomable artfulness....
The truth of the matter was that he used those liquids in bottles and jars for his experiments. He had discovered a chemical process for the manufacture of fish-glue—a new method that would leave Trader Mack and his factory simply nowhere. Mack had set up his plant at considerable expense; his means of transport were inadequate, and his supplies of raw material restricted to the fishing season. Moreover, the business was superintended by his son Frederik, who was by no means an expert. Rolandsen could manufacture fish-glue from a host of other materials than fish heads, and also from the waste products of Mack’s own factory. Furthermore, from the last residue of all he could extract a remarkable dye.
Save for his weight of poverty and helplessness, Rolandsen of the Telegraphs would have made his invention famous by this time. But no one in the place could come by ready money except through the agency of Trader Mack, and, for excellent reasons, it was impossible to go to him in this case. He had once ventured to suggest that the fish-glue from the factory was over-costlyto produce, but Mack had merely waved his hand in his lordly, careless way, and said that the factory was a gold-mine, nothing less. Rolandsen himself was burning to show forth the results of his work. He had sent samples of his product to chemists at home and abroad, and satisfied himself that it was good enough so far. But he got no farther. He had yet to give the pure, finished liquid to the world, and take out patents in all countries.
So that it was not without motive and vainly that Rolandsen had turned out that day to receive the new chaplain and his family. Rolandsen, the wily one, had a little plan of his own. For if the priest were a wealthy man, he could, no doubt, invest a little in a safe and important invention. “If no one else will do it, I will”—that was the thing he would say, no doubt. Rolandsen had hopes.
Alas, Rolandsen was always having hopes—a very little was enough to fire him. On the other hand he took his disappointments bravely; none could say otherwise than that he bore himself stiffly and proudly, and wasnot to be crushed. There was Mack’s daughter Elise, for instance, even she had not crushed him. A tall, handsome girl, with a brown skin and red lips, and twenty-three years of age. It was whispered that Captain Henriksen, of the coasting steamer, worshipped her in secret; but years came and years passed, and nothing happened. What could be the matter? Rolandsen had already made an eternal fool of himself three years back; when she was only twenty he had laid his heart at her feet. And she had been kind enough not to understand him. That was where Rolandsen ought to have stopped and drawn back, but he went forward instead, and now, last year, he had begun to speak openly. Elise Mack had been forced to laugh in his face, to make this presumptuous telegraph person realise the gulf between them. Was she not a lady, who had kept no less than Captain Henriksen waiting years for her consent?
And then it was that Rolandsen went off and got engaged to Jomfru van Loos. Ho, he was not the man to take his death of a refusal from high quarters!
But now it was spring again. And the spring was a thing well-nigh intolerable to a great heart. It drove creation to its uttermost limit; ay, it blew with spiced winds into innocent nostrils.
The herring are moving in from the sea. The master seiners lie out in their boats, peering through glasses at the water all day long. Where the birds hover in flocks, swooping down now and then to snap at the water, there are the herring to be found; already they can be taken in deep water with the nets. But now comes the question whether they will move up into shallower water, into the creeks and fjords where they can be cut off from retreat by the seine. It is then that the bustle and movement begins in earnest, with shouting and swarming and crowding up of men and ships. And there is money to be made, a harvest in plenty as the sands of the sea.
The fisherman is a gambler. He lays out his nets or his lines, and waits for the haul; he casts his seine and leaves the rest to fate. Often he meets with only loss and loss again, his gear is carried out to sea, or sunk, or ruined by storms, but he furnishes himself anew and tries again. Sometimes he ventures farther off, to some grounds where he has heard of others finding luck, rowing and toiling for weeks over stubborn seas, only to find he has come too late; the fishing is at an end. But now and again the prize may lie waiting for him on his way, and stop him and fill his boat with money. No one can say whom luck will favour next; all have like grounds, or hope....
Trader Mack had everything in readiness; his seine was in the boat, his master seiner swept the offing with his glass. Mack had a schooner and a couple of coasting-boats in the bay, emptied and cleaned after their voyage to Bergen with dried fish; he would load them up with herring now if the herring came; his store-loft was bursting with empty barrels. He was a buyer himself as well, in the market for herrings to anyquantity, and he had provided himself with a stock of ready money, to take all he could before the price went up.
Half-way through May, Mack’s seine made its first haul. Nothing to speak of, only some fifty barrels, but the catch was noised abroad, and, a few days later, a stranger crew appeared in the bay. Things looked like business.
Then one night there was a burglary at Mack’s office in the factory. It was a bold misdemeanour indeed; the nights now were shining bright from evening to morning, and everything could be seen far off. The thief had broken open two doors and stolen two hundredDaler.
It was an altogether unprecedented happening in the village, and a thing beyond understanding. To break in and steal from Mack—from Mack himself—even aged folk declared they had never heard the like in their days. The village folk might do a little pilfering and cheating in accordance with their humble station, but burglary on a grand scale was more than they would ever attempt. And suspicion fell at once onthe stranger crew, who were questioned closely.
But the stranger crew were able to prove that they had been out, with every man on board, four miles away, on the night.
This was a terrible blow to Trader Mack. It meant that the thief was someone in the village itself.
Trader Mack cared little for the money; he said openly that the thief must have been a fool not to take more. But that any of his own people should steal from him—the idea cut him to the quick, mighty man as he was, and the protector of them all. Did he not furnish half the entire communal budget with the taxes he paid on his various undertakings?—and had any deserving case ever been turned away from his door without relief?
Mack offered a reward for information leading to discovery. Something had to be done. There were strange boats coming in now almost every day, and a nice idea they would gain of the relations between Trader Mack and his people when it was found that they robbed and stole his money.Like the open-handed merchant prince he was, Mack fixed the reward at four hundredDaler. Then all could see he was not afraid of putting up a round sum.
The story came to the ears of the new priest, and, on Trinity Sunday, when the sermon was to be about Nicodemus who came to Jesus in the night, he made use of the opportunity to deliver an attack upon the culprit. “Here they come to us by night,” he said, “and break open our doors and steal away our means of life. Nicodemus did no wrong; he was a timorous man, and chose the night for his going, but he went on his soul’s errand. But what did men do now? Alas, the world had grown in evil-doing, the night was used for plundering and stealing. Let the guilty be punished; bring him forth!”
The new priest was found to be a fighting cock. This was the third time he had preached, and already he had persuaded many of the sinners in the parish to mend their ways. When he stood up in the pulpit, he was so pale and strange that he looked like a madman. Some of the congregation found the first Sunday quite enough, and did not venture to come again. Even Jomfru van Loos was shaken, and that was no little thing. Rough and hard as a rasp was Jomfru van Loos, and had been all her days till now. The two maids under her noted the change with much content.
There was a considerable gathering in the place now. And there were some who were not displeased at the discomfiture of Trader Mack. Mack was getting too mighty a man altogether, with his two trading stations, his seines, his factory, and his numerous vessels; the fisherfolk from other stations held by their own traders, who were condescending and easy to get on with, and who did not affect white collars or deerskin gloves as did Mack. The burglary was no more than he deserved for his high-and-mightiness. And as for offering rewards of so-and-so many hundredDalerfor this, that, and the other—Mack would be better advised to keep his ready cash for buying herring, if the herring came. After all, his money was not beyond counting; not like the stars in the sky. Who could say butthat the whole thing might have been cleverly contrived by himself, or his son Frederik: a sham burglary, to make it appear that he could afford to lose money like grass, while all the time he was in sore need of cash? So the gossip ran among the boats and on shore.
Mack realised that he must make a good impression. Here were folk from five different parishes who would carry back word of what sort of man he was to traders and relatives in other parts. Again and again it must be seen what manner of man was Trader Mack of Rosengaard.
Next time he had occasion to go up to the factory Mack hired a steamer for the journey. It was four miles from the stopping-place, and it cost a deal of money, but Mack took no heed of that. There was a great to-do about the place when the steamer came bustling in with Mack and his daughter Elise on board. He was lord of the vessel, so to speak, and stood there on board with his red sash round his waist, for all it was a summer’s day. As soon as father and daughter had landed, the steamer put aboutand went off at once; all could see that it had come for their sake only. And in face of this, some even of the stranger folk bowed to the power of Mack.
But Mack did more. He could not forget the disgrace of that burglary affair. He put up a new placard, promising that the reward of four hundredDalerwould be paid even to the thief himself if he came forward. Surely this was unequalled as a piece of chivalrous generosity? All must admit after this that it was not the money, a few miserableDaler, that troubled him. But the gossip was not stilled even now. There were still whisperings: “If the thief’s the man I think, you’ll see he’ll not own up to it now any more than before. But never a word that I said so!”
Mack the all-powerful was in an intolerable position. His reputation was being undermined. For twenty years past he had been the great man of the place, and all had made way for him respectfully; now there seemed to be less of respect in their greetings. And this despite the fact that he had been decorated with a Royal Order. A great man indeed he had been. He was thespokesman of the village, the fishermen worshipped him, the little traders of the outlying stations imitated his ways. Mack had stomach trouble, brought on, no doubt, by his royal table and splendid living, and he wore a broad red sash round his waist as soon as it began to be at all cold. Soon the little traders of the outlying stations began to wear red sashes too, for all they were but insignificant folk—upstarts whom Mack graciously allowed to live. They too would have it appear that they were great men living in luxury, with stomach troubles due to extravagant over-feeding. Mack went to church in shoes that creaked, and walked up the aisle with supercilious noises; but even his creaky shoes were copied by others after him. There were some, indeed, who set their shoes in water and dried them hard for Sundays, to creak emphatically among the congregation. Mack had been the great example in every way.
Rolandsen sits in his laboratory, hard at work. Looking out from the window he marks how a certain branch of a certain tree in the wood moves up and down. Somebody must be shaking it, but the leaves are too thick for him to see more. Rolandsen goes back to his work.
But somehow the work seemed to clog to-day. He took his guitar and tried singing one of his joyful laments, but even that failed to please him. The spring was come, and Rolandsen was troubled.
Elise Mack was come; he had met her the evening before. Proud and haughty she was, and carried herself like a lady; itseemed as if she would have tried to please him a little with a touch of kindliness here and there, but he would have none of it.
“I saw the telegraph people at Rosengaard before I left,” she said.
But Rolandsen had no wish to claim friendship with the telegraph people; he was no colleague of theirs. She was trying to emphasise the distance between herself and him once more—ho-ho! He would pay her out for that!
“You must teach me the guitar some day,” she said.
Now this was a thing to start at and to accept with thanks. But Rolandsen would have none of it. On the contrary, he would pay her out on the spot. He said:
“Very pleased, I’m sure. Whenever you like. You can have my guitar.”
Yes, that was the way he treated her. As if she were any but Elise Mack, a lady worth ten thousand guitars.
“No, thank you,” she said. “But we might use it to practise on.”
“I’ll make you a present of it.”
But at that she tossed her head, and said:
“Thank you; I’d rather be excused.”
The wily Rolandsen had touched her there. And then all at once he forgot every thought of paying her out, and murmured:
“I only meant to give you the only thing I had.”
And with that he raised his hat and bowed deeply, and walked away.
He walked away to the parish clerk’s in search of Olga. The spring was come, and Rolandsen must have a lady-love; ’twas no light thing to rule such a big heart. But apart from that he was paying attention to Olga with a purpose. There was some talk about Frederik Mack, how he had an eye to Olga himself. And Rolandsen meant to cut him out, no less. Frederik was brother to Elise herself, and it would do the family good if one of them were jilted. But anyhow, Olga was attractive enough in herself. Rolandsen had seen her grow up from a slip of a child; there was little money to spare in the home, and she had to wear her clothes as far as they would go before getting new things; but she was a bright, pretty girl, and her shyness was charming.
Rolandsen had met her two days in succession. The only way to manage it was by going straight up to the house and lending her father a book every day. He had to force these books on the old man, who had never asked for them and could not understand them. Rolandsen had to speak up for his books and plead their cause. They were the most useful books in the world, he said, and he, Rolandsen, was bent on making them known, on spreading them abroad.Værsaagod![3]
He asked the old man if he could cut hair. But the parish clerk had never cut hair in his life; Olga did all the hair-cutting in the house. Whereupon Rolandsen addressed himself to Olga, with prayers and eloquent entreaties, to cut his hair. Olga blushed and hid herself. “I couldn’t,” she said. But Rolandsen routed her out again, and overwhelmed her with irresistible words until she agreed.
“How do you like it done?” she asked.
“Just as you like,” he answered. “As if I could think of having it otherwise.”
Then, turning to her father, he tangled him up in a maze of intricate questions, until the old man could stand no more, and at last withdrew to the kitchen.
Rolandsen, elated, grew more extravagant than ever. He turned to Olga and said:
“When you go out in the dark on a winter evening and come into a lighted room, then all the light comes hurrying from everywhere to gather in your eyes.”
Olga did not understand a word of all this, but said, “Yes.”
“Yes,” said Rolandsen, “and it’s the same with me when I come in and see you.”
“Is it short enough here now?” asked Olga.
“No, not nearly. Just keep on. Do it just the way you like. Ah, you thought you could slip away and hide—didn’t you?—but you couldn’t. It was like the lightning putting out a spark.”
Of all the mad talk....
“I could manage better if you’d keep your head still,” said she.
“Then I can’t look at you. Say, Olga, have you a sweetheart?”
Olga was all unprepared for this. She was not so old and experienced as yet but that some things could put her out of countenance.
“Me? No,” was all she said. “Now I think it’ll have to do as it is. I’ll just round it off a little.” She spoke gently, having some idea he must be drunk.
But Rolandsen was not drunk at all; he was sober. He had been working hard of late; the gathering of strangers in the place had kept the telegraph busy.
“No, don’t stop yet,” he urged. “Cut it round once more—once or twice more—yes, do.”
Olga laughed.
“Oh, there’s no sense in that!”
“Oh, but your eyes are like twin stars,” he said. “And when you smile, it’s sunlight all round and all over me.”
She took away the cloth, and brushed him down, and swept up the hair from the floor. Rolandsen bent down to help her, and their hands met. She was a maid, hefelt the breath of her lips close to, and it thrilled him warmly. He took her hand. Her dress, he saw, was fastened at the throat with just an ordinary pin. It looked wretchedly poor.
“Oh—what did you do that for?” she stammered.
“Nothing. I mean, thank you for doing my hair. If it wasn’t for being firmly and everlastingly promised to another, I’d be in love with you this minute.”
She stood up with the clippings of hair in her hands, and he leaned back.
“Now your clothes’ll be all in a mess,” she said, and left the room.
When her father came in, Rolandsen had to be jovial once more; he stretched out his shorn head, and drew his hat down over his ears to show it was too big for him now. Then suddenly he looked at the time, said he must get back to the station, and went off.
Rolandsen went to the store. He asked to look at some brooches and pins—the most expensive sort. He picked out an imitation cameo, and said he would payfor it later, if that would do. But that would not do; Rolandsen owed too much already. Consequently, he was reduced to taking a cheap little glass thing, coloured to look like agate—this being all his few small coins would run to. And Rolandsen went off with his treasure.
That was the evening before....
And now, here sits Rolandsen in his room, and cannot get on with his work. He puts on his hat and goes out to see who it might be waving branches in the wood. And walks straight into the lion’s jaws. Jomfru van Loos it was had made that sign, and she stands there waiting for him. Better have curbed his curiosity.
“Goddag!” says Jomfru van Loos. “What on earth have you been doing with your hair?”
“I always have it cut in the spring,” said he.
“I cut it for you last year. I wasn’t good enough this, it seems.”
“I’m not going to have any quarrels with you,” says he.
“Oh, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m not. And you’ve no call to stand here pulling up all the forest by the roots for everyone to see.”
“You’ve no call to stand there being funny,” says she.
“Why don’t you stand out down on the road and wave an olive branch?” says Rolandsen.
“Did you cut your hair yourself?”
“Olga cut my hair, if you want to know.”
Yes, Olga, who might one day be the wife of Frederik Mack; she had cut his hair. Rolandsen was not inclined to hide the fact; on the contrary, it was a thing to be blazoned abroad.
“Olga, did you say?”
“Well, and why not? Her father couldn’t.”
“I’m tired of your goings-on,” said Jomfru van Loos. “Don’t you be surprised if you find it’s all over between us one fine day.”
Rolandsen stood thinking for a moment.
“Why, perhaps that would be best,” he said.
“What!” cried Jomfru van Loos. “What’s that you say?”
“I say you’re clean out of your senses in the spring. Look at me now; did you ever see the least little restlessness about me in the spring?”
“Oh, you’re a man,” she answered carelessly. “But, anyhow, I won’t put up with this nonsense about Olga.”
“This new priest—is he rich?” asked Rolandsen.
Jomfru van Loos wiped her eyes and turned sharp and sensible all at once.
“Rich? As far as I can see he’s as poor as can be.”
Rolandsen’s hope was shattered.
“You should see his clothes,” she went on. “And her’s. Why, some of her petticoats.... But he’s a wonderful preacher. Have you heard him?”
“No.”
“One of the wonderfullest preachers I’ve ever heard,” says Jomfru van Loos in her Bergen dialect.
“And you’re quite sure he’s not rich?”
“I know this much; he’s been up to thestore, and asked them to let him have things on credit from there.”
For a moment Rolandsen’s world was darkened, and he turned to go.
“Are you going?” asked Jomfru van Loos.
“Why, yes. What did you want with me, anyway?”
So that was the way he took it! Well, now ... Jomfru van Loos was already some way converted by the new priest, and strove to be meek and mild, but her nature would break out now and again.
“You mark my words,” she said. “You’re going too far.”
“All right!” said Rolandsen.
“You’re doing me a cruel wrong.”
“Maybe,” said Rolandsen coolly as ever.
“I can’t bear it any longer; I’ll have to give you up.”
Rolandsen thought this over once more. And then he said:
“I thought it would come to this. But seeing I’m not God, I can’t help it. Do as you please.”
“Right, then,” said she furiously.
“That first evening up here in the wood—you weren’t in such a temper then. I kissed you, and never a sound you made then but the loveliest little squeak.”
“Ididn’tsqueak,” said Jomfru van Loos indignantly.
“And I loved you for ever and ever, and thought you were going to be a fine particular joy. Ho, indeed!”
“Never you mind about me,” she said bitterly. “But what’s it to come to with you now?”
“Me? Oh, I don’t know. I don’t care now, anyway.”
“For you needn’t imagine it’ll ever come to anything with you and Olga. She’s to have Frederik Mack.”
Was she? thought Rolandsen. So it was common talk already. He walked away thoughtfully, and Jomfru van Loos went with him. They came down on to the road and walked on.
“You look nice with your hair short,” she said. “But it’s badly cut, wretchedly badly cut.”
“Can you lend me three hundredDaler?” he asked.
“Three hundredDaler?”
“For six months.”
“I wouldn’t lend you the money anyway. It’s all over between us now.”
Rolandsen nodded, and said, “Right, then, that’s agreed.”
But when they reached the Vicarage gate, where Rolandsen had to turn off, she said, “I haven’t the money. I wish I had.” She gave him her hand, and said, “I can’t stand here any longer now; good-bye for the present.” And when she had gone a few steps, she turned round and said, “Isn’t there anything else you’d like me to say?”
“No; what should there be?” said Rolandsen. “I’ve nothing that I know of.”
She went. And Rolandsen felt a sense of relief, and hoped in his heart it might be for the last time.
There was a bill stuck up on the fence, and he stopped to read it; it was Trader Mack’s latest announcement about the burglary: Four hundredSpeciedalerfor information. The reward would be paid even to the thief himself if he came forward and confessed.
Four hundredSpeciedaler! thought Rolandsen to himself.
No, the new priest was not a rich man, far from it. It was only his poor little wife who was full of thoughtless, luxurious fancies she had been brought up with, and wanted a host of servants and such. There was nothing for her to do herself in the house; they had no children, and she had never learned housekeeping, and that was why she was for ever hatching childish ideas out of her little head. A sweet and lovely torment in the house she was.
Heavens alive, how the good priest had fought his comical battles with his wife again and again, trying to teach her a scrap ofsense and thought and order! For four years he had striven with her in vain. He picked up threads and bits of paper from the floor, put odds and ends of things in their proper places, closed the door after her, tended the stoves, and screwed the ventilators as was needed. When his wife went out, he would make a tour of the rooms and see the state she had left them in: hairpins here, there, and everywhere; combs full of combings; handkerchiefs lying about; chairs piled up with garments. And he shuddered and put things straight again. In his bachelor days, when he lived by himself in an attic, he had felt less homeless than he did now.
He had scolded and entreated at first, with some effect; his wife admitted he was right, and promised to improve. And then she would get up early the next morning and set about putting things in order high and low, like a child in a sudden fit of earnestness, playing “grown-up peoples,” and overdoing it. But the fit never lasted; a few days after all was as before. It never occurred to her to wonder at the disorder when it appeared once more; on the contrary, shecould not understand why her husband should begin again with his constant discontent. “I knocked over that dish and it smashed,” she would say. “It was only a cheap thing, so it doesn’t matter.”—“But the pieces have been lying about ever since this morning,” he answered.
One day she came in and told him that Oline the maid would have to go. Oline the maid had been rude enough to complain about her mistress’s way of taking things out of the kitchen and leaving them about all over the place.
And so, after a time, the priest grew hardened to it all, and gave up his daily protest; he still went on setting in order and putting things straight, but it was with compressed lips and as few words as might be. And his wife made no remark; she was used to having someone to clear up after her. Her husband, indeed, really felt at times that she was to be pitied. There she was, going about so pleasantly, a trifle thin, and poorly dressed, yet never uttering a sigh at her poverty, though she had been brought up to lack for nothing. She wouldsit and sew, altering her dresses that had been altered so many times already, humming over her work as cheerfully as a young girl. Then suddenly her childishness would break out; the mistress of the house would throw down her work, leave everything strewed as it fell, and go off for a walk. And chairs and tables might be left for days strewn with tacked sleeves and unpicked skirts. Where did she go? It was an old habit of hers from her youth at home to go fluttering about among the shops; she delighted in buying things. She could always find some use for remnants of material, bits of ribbon, combs and perfumes and toilet trifles, odd little metal things, matchboxes, and the like. Much better buy a big thing and have done with it, thought her husband; never mind if it were expensive and brought him into debt. He might try to write a book, a popular Church history, or something, and pay for it that way.
And so the years passed. There were frequent little quarrels; but the two were fond of each other none the less, and as long as the priest did not interfere too much,they managed well enough. But he had a troublesome way of keeping an eye on some little thing or other even from a distance, even from his office window; only yesterday he had noticed a couple of blankets left out in the rain. Should he tell someone? Then suddenly he saw his wife coming back from her walk, hurrying in out of the rain. She would notice them herself, no doubt. But she went straight up to her room. He called out into the kitchen; there was no one there, and he could hear Jomfru van Loos out in the dairy. So he went out himself and brought the blankets in.
And so the matter might have passed off, and no more said. But the priest could not keep his peace, foolish man. In the evening his wife asked for the blankets. They were brought. “They’re wet,” said she.—“They would have been wetter if I hadn’t fetched them in out of the rain,” said her husband. But at that she turned on him. “Was it you that fetched them in? There was no need for you to do anything of the sort; I would have told the maids myself to fetchthem in.” He smiled bitterly at that; if he had left it till she told the maids, the blankets would have been hanging out now.
But his wife was offended. Was there any need to make such a fuss about a drop of rain or so? “Oh, but you’re unreasonable,” she said; “always bothering about all sorts of things.”—“I wish I were not obliged to bother about such things,” said he. “Just look at your washing-basin now; what’s it doing on the bed?”—“I put it there because there was no room anywhere else.”—“If you had another wash-stand, it would be all the same,” said he. “You’d have that loaded up with other things too in no time.” Then she lost patience, and said, “Oh, how can you be so unreasonable; really, I think you must be ill. I can’t bear any more of it, I can’t!” And she sat down, staring before her.
But she bore it all the same. A moment after it was all forgotten, and her kind heart forgave him the wrong. Careless and happy she was; it was her nature.
And the priest kept more and more to his study, where the general disorder ofthe house rarely penetrated. He was a big, sturdy man, and worked like a horse. He had inquired of his lay-helpers as to the moral tone of the village, and what he learned was by no means satisfactory. Wherefore he wrote letters of reprimand and warning to one and another of his flock, and where that did not avail, he went in person to visit the delinquents, till he came to be looked on with respect and awe. He spared none. He had himself ascertained that one of his helpers, Levion, had a sister who was far too easy and accommodating towards the fisher-lads; she too received a letter. He sent for her brother, and gave him the letter to deliver. “Give her that. And tell her I shall watch her goings about with an observant eye!”
Trader Mack came to call one day, and was shown into the parlour. It was a brief but important visit. Mack came to offer his assistance if any should be needed in helping the poor of the village. The priest thanked him, glad at heart. If he had not been sure of it before, at least he knew now,that Mack of Rosengaard was the protector of them all. An elegant, authoritative old gentleman; even Fruen herself, town-bred as she was, could not but feel impressed. A great man, beyond doubt—and those must be real stones in the pin he wore in his shirt-front.
“The fishery’s doing well,” said Mack. “I’ve made another haul. Nothing to speak of, only some twenty barrels, but it all helps, you know. And then it occurred to me that we ought not to forget our duty towards our neighbours.”
“Just so!” said the priest delightedly. “That’s as it should be. And twenty barrels, is that what you would call a little haul? I’ve no knowledge of these matters myself.”
“Well, two or three thousand barrels would be better.”
“Two or three thousand!” said Fruen. “Only fancy!”
“But when I don’t make big enough hauls myself, I can always buy from others. There was a boat from the outlying parts made a good haul yesterday; I bought itup on the spot. I’m going to load every vessel I’ve got with herring.”
“It’s a big business this of yours,” said the priest.
Mack admitted that it was getting on that way. It was an old-established business when he came into it, he said, but he had worked it up, and extended its operations. For the sake of the children, he felt he must.
“But, heavens, how many factories and stores and things have you altogether?” asked Fruen enthusiastically.
Mack laughed, and said, “Really,Frue, I couldn’t say offhand, without counting.”
But Mack forgot his troubles and annoyances for a little as he sat talking; he was by no means displeased at being asked about his numerous factories and stores.
“You’ve a bakery at Rosengaard,” said Fruen, thinking all at once of her housekeeping. “I wish we lived nearer. We can’t make nice bread, somehow, at home here.”
“There’s a baker at theLensmandsgaard.”
“Yes, but he’s never any bread.”
“He drinks a great deal, I’m sorry to say,” put in the priest. “I’ve written him a letter, but for all that....”
Mack was silent a moment. “I’ll set up a bakery here, then,” he said. “Seeing there’s a branch of the store already.”
Mack was almighty; he could do whatever he willed. But a word from him, and lo, a bakery on the spot!
“Only think of it!” cried Fruen, and looked at him with wondering eyes.
“You shall have your bread all right,Frue. I’ll telegraph at once for the men to come down. It’ll take a little time, perhaps—a few weeks, no more.”
But the priest said nothing. What if his housekeeper and all the maids baked the bread that was needed? Bread would be dearer now.
“I have to thank you for kindly allowing me credit at the store,” said the priest.
“Yes,” put in his wife, and was thoughtful once more.
“Not at all,” said Mack. “Most natural thing in the world. Anything you want—it’s at your service.”
“It must be wonderful to have such power,” says Fruen.
“I’ve not as much power as I could wish,” says Mack. “There’s that burglary, for instance. I can’t find out who did it.”
“It was really too bad, that business,” broke in the priest. “I see you have offered a heavy reward, even to the thief himself, and still he won’t confess.”
Mack shook his head.
“Oh, but it’s the blackest ingratitude to steal from you,” says Fruen.
Mack took up the cue. “Since you mention it,Frue, I will say I had not expected it. No, indeed, I had not. I have not treated my people so badly as to deserve it.”
Here the priest put in, “A thief will steal where there is most to steal. And in this case he knew where to go.”
The priest, in all innocence, had found the very word. Mack felt easier at once. Putting it like that made the whole thing less of a disgrace to himself.
“But people are talking,” he said. “Saying all sorts of things. It hurts myfeelings, and might even do serious harm. There are a number of strangers here just now, and they are none too careful of their words. And my daughter Elise feels it very deeply. Well,” he said, rising to his feet, “it will pass off in time, no doubt. And, as I was saying, if you come across any deserving case in the village, remember I shall be most pleased to help.”
Mack took his leave. He had formed an excellent impression of the priest and his wife, and would put in a good word for them wherever he could. It would do them no harm. Though perhaps.... Who could say to what lengths the gossip about himself had reached already? Only yesterday his son Frederik had come home and told how a drunken seaman had called to him from a boat, “Hey, when are you going to give yourself up and get the reward?”