Nothing is so boundless as the sea, nothing so patient. On its broad
back it bears, like a good-natured elephant, the tiny mannikins which
tread the earth; and in its vast cool depths it has place for all mortal
woes. It is not true that the sea is faithless, for it has never
promised anything; without claim, without obligation, free, pure, and
genuine beats the mighty heart, the last sound one in an ailing world.
And while the mannikins strain their eyes over it, the sea sings its old
song. Many understand it scarce at all, but never two understand it in
the same manner, for the sea has a distinct word for each one that sets
himself face to face with it.
It smiles with green shining ripples to the barelegged urchin who
catches crabs; it breaks in blue billows against the ship, and sends the
fresh salt spray far in over the deck. Heavy leaden seas come rolling in
on the beach, and while the weary eye follows the long hoary breakers,
the stripes of foam wash up in sparkling curves over the even sand; and
in the hollow sound, when the billows roll over for the last time, there
is something of a hidden understanding--each thinks on his own life, and
bows his head towards the ocean as if it were a friend who knows it all
and keeps it fast.
But what the sea is for those who live along its strand none can ever
know, for they say nothing. They live all their life with face turned to
the ocean; the sea is their companion, their adviser, their friend and
their enemy, their inheritance and their churchyard. The relation
therefore remains a silent one, and the look which gazes over the sea
changes with its varying aspect, now comforting, now half fearful and
defiant. But take one of these shore-dwellers, and move him far landward
among the mountains, into the loveliest valley you can find; give him
the best food, and the softest bed. He will not touch your food, or
sleep in your bed, but without turning his head he will clamber from
hill to hill, until far off his eye catches something blue he knows, and
with swelling heart he gazes towards the little azure streak that shines
far away, until it grows into a blue glittering horizon; but he says
nothing.
People in the town often said to Richard Garman, "How can you endure
that lonely life out there in your lighthouse?" The old gentleman always
answered, "Well, you see, one never feels lonely by the sea when once
one has made its acquaintance; and besides, I have my little Madeleine."
And that was the feeling of his heart. The ten years he had passed out
there on the lonely coast were among the best of his life, and that life
had been wild and adventurous enough; so, whether he was now weary of
the world, or whether it was his little daughter, or whether it was the
sea that attracted him, or whether it was something of all three, he had
quieted down, and never once thought of leaving the lighthouse of
Bratvold. This was what no one could have credited; and when it was
rumoured that Richard Garman, the _attaché_, a son of the first
commercial family of the town, was seeking the simple post of
lighthouse-keeper, most people were inclined to laugh heartily at this
new fancy of "the mad student." "The mad student" was a nickname in the
town for Richard Garman, which was doubtless well earned; for although
he had been but little at home since he had grown to manhood, enough was
known of his wild and pleasure-seeking career to make folks regard him
with silent wonder.
To add to this, too, the visits he paid to his home were generally
coincident with some remarkable event or another. Thus it was when, as a
young student, he was present at his mother's funeral; and even more so
when he came at a break-neck pace from Paris to the death-bed of the old
Consul, in a costume and with an air which took away the breath of the
ladies, and caused confusion among the men. Since then Richard had been
but little seen. Rumour, however, was busy with him. At one time some
commercial traveller had seen him at Zinck's Hotel at Hamburg; now he
was living in a palace; and now the story was that he was existing in
the docks, and writing sailors' letters for a glass of beer.
One fine day Garman and Worse's heavy state carriage was seen on its way
to the quay. Inside sat the head of the firm, Consul C.F. Garman, and
his daughter Rachel, while little Gabriel, his younger son, was sitting
by the side of the coachman. An unbearable curiosity agitated the groups
on the quay.
The state carriage was seldom to be seen in the town, and now at this
very moment the Hamburg steamer was expected. At length an _employé_ of
the firm came to the carriage window, and, after a few irrelevant
remarks, ventured to ask who was coming.
"I am expecting my brother the _attaché_, and his daughter," answered
Consul Garman, while with a movement peculiar to himself he adjusted his
smoothly shaven chin in his stiff neckcloth.
This information increased the excitement. Richard Garman was coming,
"the mad student," "the _attaché_" as he was sometimes called; and with
a daughter, too! But how could they belong to each other? Could he ever
have been really married? It was hardly likely.
The steamer came. Consul Garman went on board, and returned shortly
after with his brother and a little dark-haired girl, who doubtless was
the daughter.
Richard Garman was soon recognized, although he had grown somewhat
stouter: but the upright, elegant bearing and the striking black
moustache were still the same; while the hair, though crisp and curling
as in the old days, was now slightly necked with grey at the temples. He
greeted them all with a friendly smile as he passed to the carriage, and
there was more than one lady who felt that the glance of his bright
brown eye rested smilingly on her for a moment.
The carriage rolled off through the town, and away down the long avenue
which led to the large family mansion of Sandsgaard.
The town gossipped itself nearly crazy, but without any satisfactory
result. The house of Garman took good care of its secrets.
So much was, however, clear: that Richard Garman had dissipated the
whole of his large fortune, or else he would never have consented to
come home and eat the bread of charity in his brother's house.
On the other hand, the relation between the brothers was, at least as
far as appearances went, a most cordial one. The Consul gave a grand
dinner, at which he drank his brother's health, adding at the same time
the hope that he might find himself happy in his old home.
There is nothing so irritating as a half-fulfilled scandal, and when
Richard Garman a short time afterwards calmly received the post of
lighthouse-keeper at Bratvold, and lived there year after year without a
sign of doing anything worthy of remark, each one in the little town
felt himself personally affronted, and it was a source of wonder to all
how little the Garmans seemed to realize what they owed to society.
As far as that went, Richard himself was not perfectly clear how it had
all come about; there was something about Christian Frederick he could
not understand. Whenever he met his brother, or even got a letter from
him, his whole nature seemed to change; things he would otherwise never
have thought of attempting appeared all at once quite easy, and he did
feats which afterwards caused him the greatest astonishment. When, in a
state of doubt and uncertainty, he wrote home for the last time, to beg
his brother to take charge of little Madeleine, his only thought was to
make an end of his wasted life, the sooner the better, directly his
daughter was placed in safety. But just then he happened to get a
remittance enclosed in an extraordinary letter, in which occurred
several puzzling business terms. There was something about
"liquidation," and closing up an account which required his presence,
and in the middle of it all there were certain expressions which seemed
to have stumbled accidentally into the commercial style. For instance,
in one place there was "brother of my boyhood;" and further on, "with
sincere wishes for brotherly companionship;" and finally, he read, in
the middle of a long involved sentence, "Dear Richard, don't lose
heart." This stirred Richard Garman into action: he made an effort, and
set off home. When he saw his brother come on board the steamer the
tears came to his eyes, and he was on the point of opening his arms to
embrace him. The Consul, however, held out his hand, and said quietly,
"Welcome, Richard! Where are your things?"
Since then nothing had been said about the letter; once only had Richard
Garman ventured to allude to it, when the Consul seemed to imagine that
he wished to settle up the accounts that were therein mentioned. Nothing
could have been further from the _attaché's_ thoughts, and he felt that
the bare idea was almost an injury. "Christian Frederick is a wonderful
man," thought Richard; "and what a man of business he is!"
One day Consul Garman said to his brother, "Shall we drive out to
Bratvold, and have a look at the new lighthouse?"
Richard was only too glad to go. From his earliest days he had loved the
lonely coast, with its long stretches of dark heather and sand, and the
vast open sea; the lighthouse also interested him greatly.
When the brothers got into the carriage again to drive back to the town,
the _attaché_ said, "Do you know, Christian Frederick, I can't imagine a
position more suitable to such a wreck as myself than that of
lighthouse-keeper out here."
"There is no reason you should not have it," answered his brother.
"Nonsense! How could it be managed?" answered Richard, as he knocked the
ashes off his cigar.
"Now listen, Richard," replied the Consul, quickly. "If there is a thing
I must find fault with you for, it is your want of self-reliance. Don't
you suppose that, with your gifts and attainments, you could get a far
higher post if you only chose to apply for it?"
"No; but, Christian Frederick--" exclaimed the _attaché_, regarding his
brother with astonishment.
"It's perfectly true," replied the Consul. "If you want the post, they
must give it to you; and if there should be any difficulty, I feel
pretty certain that a word from us to the authorities would soon settle
it."
The matter was thus concluded, and Richard Garman was appointed
lighthouse-keeper at Bratvold, either because of his gifts and
attainments or by reason of a timely word to the authorities. The very
sameness of his existence did the old cavalier good; the few duties he
had, he performed with the greatest diligence and exactitude.
He passed most of his spare time in smoking cigarettes, and looking out
to sea through the large telescope, which was mounted on a stand, and
which he had got as a present from Christian Frederick. He was truly
weary, and he could not but wonder how he had so long kept his taste for
the irregular life he had led in foreign lands. There was one thing that
even more excited his wonder, and that was how well he got on with his
income. To live on a hundred a year seemed to him nothing less than a
work of art, and yet he managed it. It must be acknowledged that he had
a small private income, but his brother always told him it was as good
as nothing; how much it was, and from what source it was really derived,
he never had an idea. It is true that there came each year a current
account from Garman and Worse, made out in the Consul's own hand, and he
also frequently got business letters from his brother; but neither the
one nor the other made things clearer to him. He signed his name to all
papers which were sent to him, in what appeared the proper place.
Sometimes he got a bill of exchange to execute, and this he did to the
best of his ability; but everything still remained to him in the same
state of darkness as before.
One thing, however, was certain: Richard got on capitally. He kept two
assistants for the lanterns; he had his riding horse Don Juan, and a
cart-horse as well. His cellar was well filled with wine; and he always
had a little ready money at hand, for which he had no immediate use.
Thus, when any one complained to him of the bad times, he recommended
them to come into the country; it was incredible how cheaply one could
live there.
In the ten years they had passed at Bratvold, Madeleine had grown to
womanhood, and had thriven beyond general expectation; and when she had
got quite at home in the language (her mother had been a Frenchwoman),
she soon got on the best of terms with all their neighbours. She did not
remain much in the house, but passed most of her time at the farmhouses,
or by the sea, or the little boat haven.
A whole regiment of governesses had attempted to teach Madeleine, but
the task was a difficult one; and when the governesses were ugly her
father could not abide them, and when one came who was pretty there were
other objections. Richard paid frequent visits to Sandsgaard, either on
Don Juan or in the Garmans' dogcart, which was sent to fetch him. The
chilly, old-fashioned house, and the reserved and polished manners of
its inmates, had made a repellant impression on Madeleine. For her
cousin Rachel, who was only a few years her elder, she had no liking.
She preferred, therefore, to remain at home, and her father was never
absent for more than a few days at a time. She spent most of her time on
the shore or in the neighbouring cottages, in the society of fishermen
and pilots. Merry and fearless as she was, these men were glad to take
her out in fine weather in their boats. She thus learnt to fish, to
handle a sail, or to distinguish the different craft by their rig.
Madeleine had one particular friend whose name was Per, who was three or
four years older than herself, and who lived in the cottage nearest to
the lighthouse. Per was tall and strongly built, with a crop of stiff,
sandy hair, and a big hand as hard as horn from constant rowing; his
eyes were small and keen, as is often seen among those who from their
childhood are in the habit of peering out to sea through rain and fog.
Per's father had been a widower, and Per his only child, but he managed
to get married again, and now the family increased year after year. The
neighbours were always urging Per to get his father to divide the
property with him, but Per preferred to wait the turn of events. The
longer he waited the more brothers and sisters he had to share with. His
friends laughed at him, and somebody one day called him "Wait Per," a
joke which caused great amusement at the time, and the nickname stuck to
him ever afterwards. Beyond this, Per was not a lad to be laughed at; he
was one of the most active boatmen of the community, and at the same
time the most peaceable creature on earth. He did not trouble to
distinguish himself, but he had a kind of natural love for work, and, as
he was afraid of nothing, the general feeling was that Per was a lad
that would get on.
The friendship between Per and Madeleine was very cordial on both sides.
At first some of the other young fellows tried to take her from him, but
one day it so happened that when she was out with Per, a fresh
north-westerly breeze sprang up. Per's boat and tackle were always of
the best, so that there was no real danger; but nevertheless her father,
who had seen the boat through the big telescope, came in all haste down
to the shore, and went out on to the little pier to meet them.
"There's father," said Madeleine; "I wonder if he is anxious about us?"
"I think he knows better than that," said Per, thoughtfully.
All the same the _attaché_ could not help feeling a little uneasy as he
stood watching the boat; but when Per with a steady hand steered her in
through the fairway, and swung her round the point of the pier, so that
she glided easily into the smooth water behind it, the old gentleman
could not help being impressed by his skill. "He knows what he's about,"
he muttered, as he helped up his daughter; and instead of the lecture he
had prepared, he only said, "You are a smart lad, Per; but I never gave
you permission to sail with her alone."
There was no one near enough to hear the old gentleman's words, but when
the spectators who were standing near saw that Per shook hands with both
Madeleine and her father in a friendly manner, they could all perceive
that Per was in the lighthouse-keeper's good books for the future, and
from that day it was taken for granted that Per alone had the right to
escort the young lady.
Per thought over and over whom he should take with him in the boat. He
saw well enough that the whole pleasure would be spoilt if one of his
friends came with them. At length he hit upon a poor half-witted lad,
who was also hard of hearing into the bargain. No one could make out
what Per wanted with "Silly Hans" in his boat; but there! Per always was
an obstinate fellow. Both he and Madeleine were well contented with his
choice; and when, a few days after, she put her head in at the door, and
called to her father, "I'm just going for a little sail with Per," she
was able to add with a good conscience, "Of course, he has got some one
with him, since you really make such a point of it." She could not help
laughing to herself as she ran down the slope.
Richard, in the mean time, betook himself to the big telescope. Right
enough: Per was sitting aft, and he saw Madeleine jump down into the
boat. On the forward thwart there sat a male creature, dressed in
homespun, with a yellow sou'wester on its head.
"_Bien!_" said the old gentleman, with a sigh of relief. "It is well
they have got some one with them--in every respect."