At last, one day well on in December, the dreadful weather seemed to
have worn itself out for a time. The sky was perfectly clear, and not
even the smallest cloud was to be seen which could give rise to
apprehension. During the night there had been a few degrees of frost,
and the roads, which had for a long time been nearly impassable, became
all at once hard and dry. On the puddles lay the first ice, as thin and
clear as glass, and the meadows were hoary with frost.
The chaplain was on his way to Sandsgaard, with his newly acquired smile
on his features. The lovely weather enlivened him, and made his thoughts
cheerful and full of hope; for the chaplain was going a-wooing.
It was fully two years since Martens had lost his first wife; he had
really regretted his loss, but now it was a long time ago. It would have
been quite improper, and not at all in accordance with the views of the
congregation, for so young a widower to remain single longer than was
absolutely required by the ordinary rules of society. Now, the chaplain
knew just as well as any one that a particular charm attaches to an
unmarried clergyman--that is, for a time; and he also fully agreed with
Dean Sparre, when he said a short time previously, "If a congregation is
to have the peaceful, comforting feeling that their souls are well cared
for, they should have the example of a peaceful, homely life before
their eyes, in the form of a motherly wife at the rectory, and even
better still, a family of happy children."
And besides, Pastor Martens was really in love. Madeleine Garman had
long ago, in fact as soon as ever she left Bratvold, taken possession of
his heart by her modest and natural demeanour; and no worldly
expectations mingled in the chaplain's affections. He knew that Richard
Garman had not a shilling, and he was sufficiently free from prejudice
to disbelieve the general report that Madeleine's father had never been
properly married to her mother. In Madeleine he hoped to find the
retiring and simple-minded woman for whom he was seeking, and latterly,
since her manners had become even more quiet, he had paid her greater
attention, and it appeared to him that she met him in a modest and
womanly manner.
On his arrival at Sandsgaard, he met Mrs. Garman in her room, and to her
he entrusted his secret. At first she did not seem to take to the idea,
but on second thoughts she appeared more favourably disposed. She
considered that sooner or later something of the kind must happen, and
it was perhaps just as well that the chaplain, who was already so dear
to her should become a member of the family. She therefore said, when
she had made up her mind--
"Well, Mr. Martens, if you really think that Madeleine will make you a
good wife in the eyes of God and man, I have nothing to do but give you
my very best wishes on the choice you have made. You will find Madeleine
in the green-room."
Pastor Martens went off to the green-room, and returned after a quarter
of an hour had elapsed; but Mrs. Garman's astonishment defies
description, when she learnt that he had met with a refusal.
"Tell me," she groaned--"tell me every word. Oh, the poor misguided
child!"
"I am afraid I cannot tell you every word that passed, Mrs. Garman,"
answered Martens, pale with emotion; "I am too much shocked and--"
"And surprised too, I am sure," said Mrs. Garman, concluding his
sentence; "yes, that I can readily believe. What is the matter with the
child? What reason did she give?"
"She did not say much," answered the pastor; "she seemed to be almost
afraid of me. She went off to the door and began to cry, and said--"
"What--what did she say?"
"She simply kept repeating 'no,'" answered the chaplain, quite
crestfallen.
Mrs. Garman could not disguise her astonishment.
The bright sunshine had not the same enlivening effect upon the pastor
as he returned to his lodgings. He, however, managed to control both his
feelings and his countenance. This was a trial that he would have to
receive with humility. The only thing that annoyed him was, that he had
said anything about it to Mrs. Garman.
Mr. Martens's proposal was the only thing that was wanted to complete
the life of wretchedness, which Madeleine had passed ever since that
moonlight autumn evening; and yet the chaplain was to a certain extent
right, when he thought that Madeleine had met him with some degree of
warmth. There was, in fact, something in the almost fatherly manner with
which he treated her, something which seemed to soothe her affrighted
heart. She had a longing to be able to feel confidence in somebody, and
the calm, earnest clergyman seemed to her so different from all those
for whom she had such an abhorrence, since she had made her fatal
discovery. And now he, too, was to come to her with the same story;
told, certainly, in a different way--that she was quite willing to
allow; but still the gist of it was the same--the very same whichever
way she turned.
Mrs. Garman took her most severely to task for having so unreasonably
and foolishly rejected such a man as Pastor Martens; and at length, what
with one thing and another, the poor girl quite lost her health, and the
doctor had as much as he could do to pull her through an obstinate
attack of low fever.
George Delphin had soon got to know from Fanny that it was old Miss
Cordsen who had seen them in the garden, and given them the timely
warning. This was for him a greater relief than Fanny expected; for,
after the first feeling of pride and delight at having gained his lovely
prize, Delphin had felt more and more compunction in his inmost heart
every time he thought of Madeleine. He was not willing to break off with
Fanny--this was more than he dared to do; but, careless and clever as he
was, he thought that he would be able for the present to keep up the
double game with both.
He could make up his mind when the time came, and he would make up his
mind, too, if he could win Madeleine, and if he thought she was worth
the price of breaking off with the lovely Fanny. But within a few days
after that evening on which they had been so careless, his eyes began to
be opened. Fanny was not at Sandsgaard that day, for little Christian
Frederick had got the measles, and Delphin, therefore, attempted to talk
with Madeleine in the good-natured and patronizing way which he had
hitherto done. But a single look from her frightened eyes was enough for
him; he could not endure her glance, and became silent, and immediately
after dinner made an excuse for taking his leave. He had promised to
look in at Fanny's during the afternoon, and he found her expecting him,
as she came from the child's sick-room in a charming demi-toilette. When
he came in, she ran forwards with her hands stretched out to meet him.
Delphin did not take them, but said with a serious air--
"I know now who it was that saw us that evening; it was not Miss
Cordsen."
"That is what I have long suspected," answered Fanny, with a smile; "but
I did not wish to alarm you. Besides, Madeleine is far too stupid to
allow of her doing us any harm."
At that moment he was almost afraid of her. He felt he could not remain
with her any longer, although she besought him to do so.
Fanny stood watching him as he went down the street, biting her lips to
restrain her feelings; but the tears stood in her eyes, and she kept a
convulsive hold on the curtains, behind which she was concealing
herself. For the conquest she had made, which had also on her side been
at first only mere vanity, had ended by becoming a serious matter. She
really loved him, and could now see clearly exactly how the situation
lay.
Christmas came and passed. The ordinary festivities of the season went
on as usual at the Garmans'; but this year they were less merry than
usual. There were several members of the family who each had to bear his
own separate sorrow; and little Christian Frederick, the only hope of
the family, was lying at home, slowly recovering from the measles. Uncle
Richard never seemed to gain quite his usual Christmas spirits, for
Madeleine's appearance caused him considerable anxiety. Since he had no
longer been able to keep her under his eye by means of the big
telescope, she had quite got beyond his ken amongst all the others with
whom she constantly mixed, and whenever they happened by chance to find
themselves alone together, Madeleine did nothing but cry, and that was
more than her father could bear.
Morten was dreading the settling of the year's accounts with his father.
That part of the business which was carried on in the town, and which
was regarded as a kind of offshoot from Garman and Worse, had to be most
carefully examined on account of a large amount of private business and
debts, which the son had incurred during the past year. His housekeeping
account, which his father always wished to see, had also to be worked
out carefully by itself. But the worst of it all was, that when they
were sitting together in the Consul's office, Morten could never get rid
of the feeling, that however he might twist and wriggle, the clear blue
eyes still seemed to pierce through his every manoeuvre; and the part he
had to play was very painful to him. As soon as they had reckoned up the
result of the year, the Consul put his finger on the gross receipts and
said, "These are far too small."
"Times have been very bad," answered Morten. "I feel sure that by next
year--"
"The times have not been so bad," interrupted the father, "but that a
house with the capital with which we have to work ought to have managed
to earn double. In my father's time we earned twice as much with half
our present capital."
"Yes; but times were quite different in those days, father."
"And people were quite different too," answered the Consul, severely.
"In those days we were contented to move with caution and foresight,
without ruining our credit by mixing with a lot of speculators in all
kinds of doubtful undertakings."
Morten felt the rebuke, and answered, "I did not think Garman and Worse
set such store by its credit in those days."
"The house is no longer what it has been," said the young Consul dryly,
closing the thick ledger. He then held out his hand to Morten over the
table, and said, "Best wishes for the new year."
"The same to you, father," said Morten, as their eyes met for a moment.
The young Consul thought upon the time when he himself stood where
Morten was now standing, and when the old Consul sat in the armchair.
How utterly different everything was in the old days! However, the
year's account was over, and Morten was glad of it.
After Christmas there was a succession of balls and parties in the town.
At Sandsgaard only one large ball was given every year, and that was on
the old Consul's birthday, which fell on the 15th of May.
Madeleine did not go out that winter, neither did she pay any more
visits to Fanny. Rachel was, as usual, quite incomprehensible. Sometimes
she would answer her well-known "No, thanks," and sometimes she would
take it into her head to make herself smart, go to a dance, and be
either pleasant or the contrary, just as the fit took her.
The disappointment she had experienced at the hands of Mr. Johnsen made
her more bitter than ever; but she never gave him another thought. She
had done her best for him, as she said to herself, and now that it was
over, she heard with the greatest indifference that his Bible
explanations at the prayer-meeting were so wonderfully successful; but
in her innermost heart Rachel often felt a void, which sometimes made
her uneasy. It seemed as if she was indifferent to everything. She felt
no pleasure in anything; and it was generally when she was in this mood
that she felt most inclined to go to a ball.
In February there was a dance given at the Club, at which both Rachel
and Fanny were present. Fanny was dressed entirely in blue, even to her
shoes, fan, and blue flowers in her hair; but her eyes were bluer than
all.
"Ein meer von blauen Gedanken
Ergiesst sich über mein Herz,"
as Delphin said when he came into the room. The pleasure caused her by
this compliment had to suffice her for the whole evening. She could no
longer hide from herself that Delphin was in danger of slipping out of
her hands; but she never reproached him, for she felt instinctively that
as soon as anything of the kind arose between them, all would be over,
and part from him she could not.
Jacob Worse danced a waltz with Rachel, and during the pauses he tried
several times to lead the conversation on to the injustice she had done
him in calling him a coward. At first she avoided the subject, which
was, indeed, too serious a one for the ballroom; but Worse was
persistent--it was not very often that he had the opportunity of
speaking with her--and at last Rachel promised him half jestingly to
give him an answer when the dance was over.
As they were sitting by themselves in a corner of one of the rooms
leading off the ballroom, and while the dancing was still going on, she
said, "I must beg your pardon for what I said the other day. You are not
a bit more cowardly than the rest of them."
"If we could manage to define exactly what you mean by cowardice," said
Jacob Worse.
"But you know perfectly well."
"Well, then, is not this about your idea? When a man, either in
politics, or in religion, or in any other serious matter, is not at all
in accordance with the general tone of the society in which he
lives--then, if he holds his tongue, it can be from no other cause than
from what you are pleased to call cowardice."
"That is exactly my opinion, and I maintain it is correct."
"But, on the other hand, I am sure you must allow," continued Jacob
Worse, "that all opposition has not the same weight. In many cases it
might do more harm--"
"Oh, I know that miserable, cowardly excuse!" broke in Rachel, abruptly.
"'What is the good,' you say, 'of even my best endeavours when I work
alone?' and then you lie down and go to sleep. That is indeed cowardice
_par excellence_."
"I must, however, tell you, Miss Rachel," answered Jacob Worse, who was
beginning to lose his self-control, "that there is many a man who during
his whole life is painfully conscious that he has not the power of
making his views felt, or has even the opportunity of bringing them
before the world. But it is not in courage that such a man is
wanting--far from it."
"I could almost believe that you were speaking of yourself," said
Rachel, with indifference.
"Yes, and so I am!" answered he, hurriedly. "I have always been one of
those heavy, slow-thinking people, but I have a quality which that kind
of person would be better without. I am hasty. From my boyhood I have
known it, and have kept it under to the best of my ability. But,
notwithstanding my efforts, this hastiness sometimes gets the better of
me, just when I am most in want of a little cool reflection. I lose my
head, the words begin to flow like a torrent, and I listen to them
myself almost with terror. Yes, you have heard me yourself on one
memorable occasion, Miss Rachel," he added with a smile, "and I am sure
you will confess that a man of my nature is but little suited to engage
in a struggle with prejudice. For, for such a struggle, patience and
coolness are imperative."
"It is quite possible that the attributes of which you speak are most
desirable," answered Rachel, "but still it seems quite clear to me that
every man who has a conviction is bound to act up to it. How much he can
accomplish is not the question he must ask himself, but he is bound to
make the attempt."
"I will just tell you how my first attempt turned out," said Jacob
Worse. "When I came home, which is now about two or three years ago,
still breathing the comparative freedom of other lands, the first thing
in our own country which attracted my attention was the exceptionally
bad social condition of our labourers and mechanics. Their houses and
food, the bringing-up of their children, their teaching and education,
in fact, everything which belonged to them, fell far short of what I
thought it ought to be."
"I have often thought upon the same subject," rejoined Rachel. "But
father says it is the fault of the people themselves; they are so
greatly opposed to change."
"That is one of your most excellent father's worst prejudices. However,
I began by getting up a society, which with us is no easy matter. All
went well at first, and then a president had to be chosen. Some one
suggested myself, a proposition to which all the others agreed, which
was quite natural. I thus became president, and took no little trouble
in instructing the people as to what questions were important for them,
and what were their requirements. Then I began to hear a whisper here
and there that it was a curious thing that the president of the society
had never been properly elected. I did not take much notice of these
whispers, but still I suggested that there should be an election. The
day came, and some one else was chosen in my place."
"It was Mr. Martens, was it not?" asked Rachel.
"Yes; you are quite right. I was greatly astonished, and did not attempt
to conceal my feelings. Martens had not attended a single one of our
meetings before the afternoon on which he was elected. I found the whole
thing quite incomprehensible. However, in our state of society, it is
not difficult to get to know anything if you only give yourself the
trouble to make a few inquiries; and so I soon got a clear knowledge
that the person who had got up the whole thing was the dean. So one day
I called upon him."
"No! I never heard of that!" cried Rachel. "What did the dean say?"
"Nothing. The answer he gave me amounted to nothing. Not that I wish you
to understand that he held his tongue. On the contrary, he talked
incessantly in his best-modulated voice, and was smiling, friendly, in
fact, almost appreciative, but not a single word fell from his lips that
was really to the point. Do what I would, I could not get him to discuss
a single question, or to give me a reason as to why he had got me turned
out of the workman's society, and put his chaplain in my place. He
denied nothing and confessed nothing, and the end of it was--there,
again, my misfortune--I got so annoyed to see him leaning back in his
chair, with his white hair and everlasting smile, that I got into one of
my worst tempers and poured out a regular volley of thunder at him."
"Well, and the dean--did he lose his temper?" asked Rachel.
Worse laughed. "I might just as well have tried to get a spark out of
wood, as to get him to lose his temper. No; the dean was bland as ever,
and when I left he shook my hand, and hoped he might soon have the
pleasure of seeing me again. But afterwards I got well paid out for that
visit."
"How was that?" she asked.
"Well, you see, since then I seem to have been under a ban, which shows
itself in all sorts of little ways--in business, in society, everywhere.
My mother, poor thing, hears it in her shop from her customers, and it
always takes the same annoying form: regret about modern disbelief, and
free-thinking, and so on; and I am certain that most people regard it as
a stroke of wonderful good luck, that I was prevented in good time from
corrupting--yes, no less than corrupting--our noble workpeople. So I
said to myself, 'Since there is such a wide difference between my
opinions and those of the people whom I wish to assist, and since my
nature is what it is, there is nothing else to be done but for me to
keep myself thoroughly occupied with my work, and hold my peace.'"
"Peace! Yes, there it is again!" said Rachel. "But no, no! I am sure you
are not right."
"Well, let me speak to you about yourself, Miss Garman," said Jacob
Worse, becoming more courageous. "Neither I nor any one else of your
acquaintance will be able to comply fully with the conditions you lay
down. But I know one person who has the power, and that, Miss Garman, is
yourself. You have all the qualifications we others lack."
"I! a woman! and, worse than all, a lady!" said Rachel, looking at him
with the greatest astonishment. "And how, if I may ask?"
"You must write!"
Rachel hesitated, and looked at him suspiciously. "That is not the first
time I have heard this. More than one person has mentioned it to me
before. I suppose it is that authorship is reckoned as one of the bad
habits of an emancipated woman."
Jacob Worse again began to lose his self-command. "I don't mind your
calling me a coward, Miss Garman. But when you think, or pretend to
think, that I am not speaking more seriously than some of these--"
"No, no; sit down, I beg you," said Rachel, anxiously, putting her hand
on his arm. "I did not mean any harm, but I am so suspicious. I beg
pardon. There, now, don't think any more about it. You really do think,
then, that I ought to write?"
"I am quite sure you ought," answered Worse, who soon became quiet
again. "You have so much originality and so much energy, that you will
be able to overcome every difficulty, and in courage you are certainly
not wanting."
Amid the whirl of the dance around them, these encouraging words sounded
doubly strange in her ears, and seemed to open out new vistas before
her.
"But what have I got to write about? What do I know that the world does
not know already? No, you really must be wrong, Mr. Worse. It is beyond
me;" and she looked down at her dress, and could not help feeling that
Worse was becoming rather dull.
"It is not very easy to say beforehand what your subject ought to be,"
said he; "but it is clear that there are endless things that the world
can only learn from a woman, and which it seems to be expecting to hear.
For you it is but to have the will. You are now passing through a crisis
in your life, and you have such a fund of energy--"
"You seem to be treating me more like a chemical equivalent than like a
human being, not to say like a lady," said Rachel, laughing.
"Let us be thankful that you have so little of the lady about you," said
Jacob Worse, bluntly.
The dance now began for which Rachel was otherwise engaged, and her
partner came and carried her off.
Jacob Worse stood watching her for a few minutes. He then got his coat
and went home.
He perfectly understood that by awakening these thoughts in her, he
would make the fulfilment of what was really the dream of his life
become more distant than ever. But he felt convinced that Rachel's
splendid abilities would be entirely thrown away in her present narrow
sphere; and he felt, too, that he was perfectly honest to himself, when
he said that he would not hinder her from taking the path she ought to
follow, even if he thereby destroyed his own greatest happiness. But
when he got home and was alone in his own quiet room, he was even more
dispirited. He could not but see that when Rachel came to have a proper
estimate of her own powers, she would find her present home too narrow
for her, and a marriage such as he could offer would be quite unworthy
of her.
He saw a light in the rooms at the back of the house. It was not much
past eleven; so he went over to his mother, whom he found in her
dressing-gown, busied in arranging her small remnant of hair for the
night.
It was not astonishing that the worthy Mrs. Worse's eyes kindled with
pride when she saw her tall, handsome son come in, dressed as he had
been for the ball: but when he threw himself on the sofa, and hid his
face in his hands, and said, "Oh, mother! mother!" just as he had done
in his boyhood when he had done something foolish, Mrs. Worse shook her
clenched fist against some imaginary foe in the corner of the room, and
muttered, "Is it decent to send me home a son in such a plight?"
She did not, however, say the words aloud, but went over and took his
head upon her lap, and, as she passed her fingers through his hair, she
said with her unwavering constancy, "There, my dear boy, only keep
yourself calm, and it will all come right, somehow or another."
Rachel would also have been glad enough to have been taken home at once;
but Mrs. Garman had heard that the new cook had something new in
_filets_, and they therefore had to wait until after supper.