Fanny and Madeleine had accepted an invitation for the Wednesday in the
same week. Rachel had simply refused without giving a reason, but people
were now used to her manner.
"I have such a dreadful headache!" sighed Fanny, as she came into
Madeleine's room, who was getting ready to go out. Madeleine had come
into the town on the Sunday evening.
"Poor Fanny!" said Madeleine, feelingly; "have you got that headache
again?"
"Yes, it came just as if it were on purpose, at the very moment I was
going to change my dress. Oh, how bad it is!"
"I think you have had a great many of these headaches lately, Fanny; you
ought to speak to the doctor."
"It is no use," answered Fanny, endeavouring to cool her forehead by
pressing a little hand-glass against it. "The only thing that does me
any good is fresh air and perfect quiet. Oh, the noise here from the
street is dreadful! To think that I have to spend the whole evening in a
hot room! I can't bear it; it will be too much for me!"
"You shan't go out at all when you are so unwell," said Madeleine,
decidedly. "I will make such a nice excuse for you."
"Oh, if I could only stop at home, or, even better still, if I could get
to Sandsgaard; it is so quiet there!" said Fanny, with a sigh.
"Yes, that is just what you shall do," cried Madeleine. "You take the
carriage when it has left me, and drive out there. I believe it is
clearing up, and we shall have a lovely quiet moonlight evening."
"Yes; I don't much mind what the weather is," said Fanny, with a sickly
smile. "But do you think it will do for me--"
"You need not trouble about that. I will make such charming and
plausible excuses for you, that you will really feel quite rewarded for
all the trouble you have had in teaching me the ways of society. Look
now, I will begin like this;" and Madeleine, who had now got on her
dress, curtsied and smiled, and began a most pathetic story about dear
Fanny's dreadful headache. Fanny began to laugh, until it gave her head
so much pain that she could not help crying out. She, however, allowed
herself to be persuaded, and Madeleine drove off alone.
Madeleine now began to find herself at home in her new life. Fanny was
so good and kind to her, that the young girl at last got the better of
her shyness, and told her friend the whole story about Per, and the rest
of her doings at home.
Fanny did not laugh at her in the least; on the contrary, she said that
she quite envied Madeleine the romantic little episode, which would be a
sweet recollection for the rest of her life. But when Madeleine timidly
said that she considered it more than a recollection, and that she
regarded herself as really engaged, she met with such a determined
opposition that she did not know what to think. "Young girls, often have
these absurd adventures," said Fanny, "when they are not old enough to
know better." She had herself been madly in love with a chimney-sweep--a
common chimney-sweep, just think of that!
The more Madeleine became accustomed to town life the easier she found
it to deaden her recollections of the past. But however successful she
was in burying them out of sight for the time, they would recur whenever
she was alone. But she refused to listen to them; they could never
become realities. Still, she never cared to go home to Bratvold with her
father, even for a few days. She seemed to dread looking on the sea
again.
All that day Rachel had waited in vain; she was beginning to be uneasy.
Why did he not come to see her--she who had been so much the cause of
his enterprise? He must know how anxious she was to talk with him, and
to thank him. It was surely impossible for him to think that she also
believed that he had gone too far. Should he not come to-morrow, she
would write to him.
There was but little conversation that evening at dinner. The Consul was
as precise and polite as he generally was when he was alone with the
ladies. Fanny, who had come in hopes of curing her headache, was silent
and suffering. By ten o'clock the whole house was perfectly quiet, but
Rachel was still sitting in her room, lost in thought. She could not
read, but several times she took up a pen to write, she scarcely knew
what. She never accomplished her intention, and at last she put out the
light, and sat down and gazed over the fjord, which lay sparkling in the
moonlight. If, forsaken by every one, he now came to her and prayed for
even more than her friendship, for this too she was prepared, and had
finally decided on her answer. He was a man, and a courageous one, and
she was determined to follow him. What a joy it had been to her to meet
such a man! But why was she out of spirits now?
Rachel sat by the window till she heard the carriage which brought home
Madeleine, and then hurriedly undressed and went to bed.
As Madeleine was driving home the carriage stopped for a moment in front
of the club, while a boy spoke a few words to the coachman.
The driver that evening was old Per Karl, who many years ago had come
from Denmark with a pair of horses for the young Consul. Both he and the
horses were long past their work; but whenever he could get the
opportunity, he was only too pleased to get the old blacks into the
carriage, and himself upon the box. This had been the case this evening,
when it was only the good-natured Miss Madeleine for whom the carriage
was going, and she was always perfectly satisfied, as the old Jutlander
well knew, even if the pace was not very terrific.
Per Karl now turned round and said to Madeleine, "What shall we do,
miss? Now there will be a bother. Mr. Morten is going to drive out with
us, and when he sees we have got the old horses he will be angry."
A few moments afterwards Morten came out, and, after many apologies for
the delay, took his place by Madeleine's side. He said he thought he
would go out and see how Fanny was, she looked so very unwell; and
besides, what a lovely moonlight evening it was for a drive! He sat
himself down comfortably in the carriage, and had just taken a long
whiff of his cigar, when all at once he leant forward and said, "Stop!
what was that?"
One of the horses had made a slight stumble, and the jar was felt in the
carriage.
"I declare, it is those old horses and Per Karl!" cried Morten, partly
standing up. "What is the meaning of this?"
"Oh!" muttered Per Karl, who was quite ready to defend himself, "there
is nothing the matter with the old horses; but, of course, if we had
known we were going to have you in the carriage, sir--"
"Rubbish! You know perfectly well the old horses were not to be used any
more. I will tell my father, and have them shot to-morrow, as sure as
ever it comes."
Morten was very fond of horses; and besides, he was just in that excited
and obstinate mood in which people sometimes are, when they have been
dining at their club.
Madeleine tried to pacify her cousin, but it only made him all the
worse.
"Just look how lame that one is--the left-hand one!"
"You mean the near one, sir."
"Go to the devil with your near and off! I mean the left-hand one, the
mare; both her fore legs are as round as apples. Why, I saw that in the
spring."
"Not both of them," answered the old coachman, doggedly.
"Yes, they are; but I will have this looked to. I will have a stop put
to it, once for all," said Morten, decidedly. He was just in the humour
to take everything very much in earnest.
As soon as they arrived, he scarcely gave himself time to help Madeleine
out of the carriage, so anxious was he to examine the mare's fore legs;
and she heard the voices disputing and wrangling away in the direction
of the stable, as she went into the house.
Madeleine's window looked to the westward, and when she reached her room
she found it open. She was going to shut it, but the sea looked so
peaceful down below in the clear moonlight, that she knelt down on the
window-seat, and remained gazing at the lovely scene. The moon had just
reached the point at which it began to shine upon her window, and the
shadow fell obliquely from the corner of the house, just beyond the
hedge below, thus leaving a triangular space in darkness close
underneath. As Madeleine leant out she could see that Miss Cordsen's
window was also open. She was just going to call to the old lady, with
whom she was on the most friendly terms, but on consideration she
thought it would be nicer to enjoy the delightful moonlight evening
alone.
In that part of the garden the paths were to a great extent overgrown by
the spreading trees. The little pond, which had once been full of carp,
and where even now some remained, only no one seemed to notice them, was
fringed with tall rushes. On the other side was the old summer-house,
almost hidden among the shrubs, which were now never clipped. The fact
is, that part of the garden which was now most cared for was that which
lay just in front of the house, and the part we are now speaking of was
left pretty much to itself. Along the inside of the garden-wall there
stood a row of aspen trees, whose leaves were beginning to turn yellow
and strew themselves on the paths. Almost all the other trees still kept
their foliage, although it was already September. The mountain ash
berries were beginning to redden, and shone in heavy clusters among the
leaves, while here and there a leaf was to be seen turning from red to
yellow. The beech trees, which had been planted in the time of the young
Consul's grandfather, spread out their branches far and wide. The
shining dark green foliage hung in rich festoons nearly to the ground,
and the long shoots were fringed with masses of tufted beech-nuts.
A mysterious silence reigned in the garden, while the moonlight came
rippling noiselessly through the leaves and stealing down the trunks,
forming patches of radiance on the grass, which were sharply defined by
the edges of the dark shadows. Goldfinches, bullfinches, a few thrushes,
and other autumn birds, were sitting in the aspen trees. They were
mostly occupied in quietly pluming their feathers, and only some of the
young birds, which had been hatched that spring, were hopping about from
branch to branch. The parents sat watching them, thinking, doubtless,
how delightful it was to be young and innocent. All nature seemed to
have reached maturity, and the restless activity of spring was
forgotten. The birds were now calm and sober enough. The cocks and hens
sat peacefully side by side, no advances were made or encouraged.
Love-making, with all its follies, was at an end for that year. Only the
curious dragon-flies, with their four long wings and taper bodies, were
still busy with their love-dances over the pond. August had been so
rainy and windy that they seemed anxious to make the most of the still
autumn evening. The males were sitting dotted about among the reeds,
peering on every side with their prominent eyes, and when one approached
another too closely, the two would rush at each other till their
transparent wings, like delicate plates of silver, and their scaly
bodies, made a tiny rustling when they met in conflict. Then all was
still again among the rushes, until the arrival of a female dragon-fly.
She would come slowly and carelessly humming along from some other part
of the garden, and when she got near the pond would change her course,
turn off, and fly back again. Her little heart was doubtless beating
high; but casting aside her fears, she at length took courage, and sped
on over the pond. Away started five or six males, dashing at each other
like knights in helm and harness, and battling confusedly amid the clash
of tiny weapons. But the happy victor soon bid adieu to the conflict,
and sailed past the others to the side of his lovely prize. Their wings
met for a moment in mimic combat, and then away they glided in close
embrace far over the heads of the discomfited champions, each aiding
other with fairy wings, to seek a lonely spot far away among the rushes.
A plaintive air, sung by some shrill girlish voices in the West End, was
wafted over by the light evening breeze. It was so still that Madeleine
could follow every word:
"I now myself must sever,
My little friend, from thee.
Let naught oppress thee ever;
Soon home again I'll be."
She felt more than usually depressed, and now, just as it had happened
after church on Sunday, Delphin's image seemed suddenly to spring up
into her thoughts. Where he came from she knew not. A web of confused
reveries seemed to weave themselves in her soul, just as the moon shed
its mysterious network of shadows over the grass.
Her attention was all at once attracted by a noise in the garden. She
certainly fancied that she heard the door of the summer-house creak on
its rusty hinges. At the same moment she heard Morten's heavy tread on
the stone steps leading up to the front door: he must be returning from
the stable. It was time to go to bed, but still she remained at the
window, looking towards the summer-house. She now discovered two forms
that were going slowly down the path which led to the wicket in the
garden wall. This path was fringed on both sides by high overgrown
hedges, and she could only see the heads every now and then as they
passed. In the idea that it was one of the maids with her sweetheart,
she was just going to shut the window. It was surely nothing which
concerned her.
The pair had just reached the place at which two paths crossed each
other, which was illuminated by a broad patch of moonlight. Madeleine
could not help being curious to see who it might be, and still stood
leaning out of the window, holding on to the fastening of the sun-blind.
The lovers stood still for a moment, as if they felt that there was
danger in passing the place. At length they took courage, and sped
hastily by. But not hastily enough--Madeleine had recognized them both.
Her pulse seemed to stop and her heart to sink within her, and without
uttering a sound she slipped down on the floor under the window. In the
passage, outside her door, she heard Morten go grumbling back from the
bedroom which he and Fanny usually occupied, and in which she was not to
be found.
Madeleine's head became clear in a moment In another instant he would be
down the staircase, out in the garden, and then--They must be saved, but
why she did not know, nor how; but save them she must. Her first idea
was to close the window with a bang, but she did not dare to stand up.
In her need she saw the water-bottle on the table. She seized it, and,
without lifting her head, put it on the window-sill. She gave it a push,
and a second after she heard the crash of the glass, and the splash of
the water on the paving-stones with which the house was surrounded. She
lay still, crouched in a heap under the window.
A light hurried step and the rustle of a dress were heard over the lawn.
All was so still, and her nerves were in such a state of tension, that
Madeleine could hear one of the French windows carefully opened and
closed again. The step came upstairs, and as it passed her door she
heard Morten's voice say, "I am sure you never thought that I should
come out this evening;" and Fanny's answer, "Oh, one feels that sort of
thing instinctively!"
Madeleine breathed again. It was indeed Fanny's voice, in its most
insinuating and deceitful tones.
A short time afterwards she got up and closed her window, and
withdrawing into the farthest corner of the room, she hastily undressed
and crept into bed. Her tears flowed the whole time, but she was utterly
crushed, and soon fell into a heavy slumber.
A good hour after Madeleine had gone to sleep, her door opened
noiselessly, and a tall shadowy form glided into the chamber. The form
placed a water-bottle upon the table. The moon had reached the point at
which it shone obliquely into the window, and down upon the bed where
Madeleine was sleeping. The apparition drew the curtains more closely,
and the while a beam of moonlight passed over its features. They were
furrowed with innumerable small wrinkles, and a night-cap with starched
strings was knotted tightly under the chin.
Noiselessly as it had entered, the apparition glided out again, and the
door closed.