The same morning Torpander was seen, going along the road which led to
Sandsgaard. Contrary to his usual custom, he had taken a holiday that
Monday. On his head he wore a grey felt hat of the particular shape
which was called in the trade "the mercantile." The hatter had assured
him that it had been originally made for Mr. Morten Garman, but that it
was unfortunately just a trifle too small. The hat, however, exactly
fitted Torpander, and dear as it was, he bought it; and he could not
help noticing the coincidence, that he was that day wearing a hat which
Morten Garman had rejected. He had also bought a coat for the occasion,
not quite new, it is true, but of a most unusual light-brown hue. The
trousers were the worst part of the costume, but the coat was long
enough, in a great measure, to hide them. Torpander could well enough
have bought trousers as well, but he did not wish to trench too deeply
on his savings, before he saw how it fared with him that day. If all
went well she should have everything he possessed, and if it went badly
he would return at once to Sweden, for he could bear the suspense no
longer. He had not, truth to say, great hopes as to his ultimate
success. He had heard a report that Marianne was unwell, but perhaps she
was upset by the disgrace which Martin had brought upon the family. The
fact that he was making his proposal at that particular time might be a
point in his favour; but no, he could not help feeling that such
happiness was almost bewildering.
It was a lovely sunshiny day, and the tall light-brown form went briskly
on its way, moving its arms unconsciously, as if rehearsing the scene
which was shortly to follow. In the left-hand pocket of his coat he had
a silk handkerchief, which had long been his dream, of a bright orange
colour with a light-blue border, and of which the corner was seen
protruding from his pocket. It was not at all his intention to put the
handkerchief to its legitimate use; for that purpose he had a red cotton
one, adorned with Abraham Lincoln's portrait. The silk handkerchief was
to be used only for effect, and every time he met any one in the avenue
before whom he thought it worth while to show off, and that was nearly
every passer-by, he drew the brilliant handkerchief from his pocket,
raised it carefully to his face, and let it fall again. He derived the
greatest satisfaction from feeling the rough surface of the silk cling
to the hard skin on the inside of his hands.
At the building-yard he met Martin, who was coming hastily along in the
opposite direction.
"Is your sister at home?" asked Torpander.
"Yes, you will find her at home," answered Martin, with an ominous
smile.
In the yard close to the house at Sandsgaard, Martin met Pastor Martens,
who was on his way from the town, dressed in cassock and ruff.
Martin touched his cap. "Will you come and see my sister, sir? She is at
the point of death."
"Who is your sister?" asked the pastor.
"Marianne, sir; Anders Begmand's granddaughter."
"Oh yes, I remember now," answered the pastor, who knew her history
perfectly well. "But I cannot come just now; I have to go in here first.
Consul Garman is also on his death-bed. But I will come afterwards."
"Oh yes, this is just what I might have expected," muttered Martin,
turning to go away.
"Wait a moment, young man," cried the pastor. "If you think that time
presses, I will go and see your sister. It's the last house, is it not?"
Upon which he went on past Sandsgaard, and on towards West End.
Martin was astonished, if not almost disappointed. The pastor meanwhile
continued his way, which he did not find very pleasant when he had to
pass among the cottages. Ragged urchins waylaid him, the girls and the
old women put their heads out of the doors and gaped after him, while a
group of children who were grovelling on the shore cheered him lustily.
Wherever he turned, all reeked of filth and poverty.
As Torpander could get nothing out of Anders Begmand, whom he found
huddled up in a corner of the room, he went upstairs and knocked at
Marianne's door. No one said "Come in," and he therefore ventured to
open the door slightly and look into the room.
Poor man! he was so appalled that he could scarcely keep his feet. There
she lay, his own beloved Marianne; her mouth half open, and moaning
incessantly. Her cheeks, which were sunken, were of an ashy white, and
in the dark hollows round her eyes were standing small drops of
perspiration. He had no idea that her state was so hopeless; and this
was the time he had chosen for making his proposal! Marianne lifted her
eyes. She knew him--of that he felt assured, for she smiled faintly with
her own heavenly smile; but he could not help remarking how conspicuous
her teeth appeared. She could no longer speak, but her large eyes moved
several times from him to the window, and he thought that she was asking
for something. Torpander went to the window, which was a new one Tom
Robson had had made, and laid his hand on the fastening. She smiled
again, and as he opened the window, he could see a look of thankfulness
pass over her features. The midday sun, which was shining over the hill
at the back of the house and falling obliquely on the window, threw a
ray of light for a short distance into the room. Away in the town the
bells were tolling for a funeral, and their sound, which was re-echoed
from the hill, was soft and subdued in its tone.
Marianne turned towards the light; her eyes were shining brilliantly,
and a delicate shade of red mantled her cheeks. Torpander thought he had
never seen her look so lovely.
When Pastor Martens entered the room, he was as much struck by the
appearance of the dying woman as Torpander had been, but in quite a
different manner. It was impossible she could be so near death; and he
could not help feeling annoyed with Martin, who had thus exaggerated his
sister's danger, and had perhaps been the cause of his arriving too late
at Consul Garman's death-bed. The extraordinary figure dressed in the
long light-brown coat, which kept ever and anon bowing to him, did not
tend to calm his feelings, and it is possible that something of his
annoyance showed itself in the words which he now addressed to Marianne.
The clergyman was standing by the bed in such a position as to shield
the light of the window from Marianne, who was gazing at him with her
large eyes. He did not wish to be severe, but it was well known that the
woman at whose death-bed he was standing, was fallen. At the close of
such a life, it was only his duty to speak of sin and its bitter
consequences. Marianne's eyes began to wander uneasily as she turned
them, now on the clergyman, and now on Torpander. At length she made an
effort, and turned her face in the other direction.
The pastor did not intend to finish his discourse without holding out a
hope of reconciliation with God, even after such a life of sin; but
while he continued speaking about repentance and forgiveness, the
neighbour, who had been at her dinner, entered the room.
The woman went to the foot of the bed, but when she looked at Marianne's
face she said quietly, "I beg your pardon, sir, but she is dead."
"Dead!" said the minister, rising hastily from his chair. "It is most
extraordinary!" He took up his hat, said good-bye, and left the room.
The woman took Marianne's hands and folded them decently across her
breast; she then put her arms under the bedclothes and straightened the
legs, so that the corpse should not stiffen with the knees bent. The
mouth was slightly open. She shut it, but the chin fell again. Torpander
could see what the woman was looking for, and handed her his silk
handkerchief. How rejoiced he was that he had not used it! The woman
regarded the handkerchief suspiciously, but when she saw that it was
perfectly clean, she folded it neatly and tied it round Marianne's head.
Torpander stood gazing at the little weary face, bound round with his
lovely silk handkerchief, and he felt at length as if he had some part
in her. He had received her last look, her last smile, and as a reward
she had accepted his first and last gift. After all, his courtship had
had the best ending he could possibly have hoped for. He bent his head,
and wept silently in Abraham Lincoln's portrait.
Begmand came upstairs, and sat gazing at the body. Since the fire he had
not been altogether himself.
"Shall I go to Zacharias the carpenter, and order the coffin?" asked the
woman. But as she did not get any answer, she went off and ordered the
coffin on her own account. It was not to be any more ornamental than was
usual in the West End.
Meanwhile Pastor Martens was continuing his journey. Marianne's death
had made a most disagreeable impression upon him, which probably added
to his former ill humour.
The women, both old and young, were again on the look-out for him. A
clergyman was not often to be seen in West End. The boys, who had found
a dead cat on the shore, and which the eldest was dragging after him,
came marching along like little soldiers. Behind them followed a tiny
little creature not higher than one's knee, with his mother's wooden
shoes on his feet, and wearing a paper cap on his head. The whole band
was in high spirits, and sang with a ringing voice a national air,
according to the comic version which was in use in West End:
"Yes, we love our country;
Yes, indeed we do!
He who dares deny it,
We will let him know!"
The pastor had to pass the children, whose song went through his head.
The cat, of which he just caught a glimpse, was half putrid, and its
skin was hanging in rags. Parson Martens pressed his handkerchief to his
mouth; he was afraid that the unhealthy atmosphere would be injurious to
his health.
He hurried out of West End and up to the house, as fast as his cassock,
and having to pick his way among the dirty puddles, would allow; but he
came too late. The Consul had already been dead half an hour, and so
Pastor Martens turned and went back to the town. It was very hot walking
in the long black garment, and already well past dinner-time.
Madame Rasmussen came running to meet him. "My dear Mr. Martens, dinner.
Why, it's half-past two! Why, how exhausted you look!"
"Let us rejoice, Madame Rasmussen," answered the clergyman, with a bland
smile, "when we are thought worthy to endure trials."
He was indeed a heavenly man, was the pastor. How pious and amiable he
looked as he sat at table! No one could ever have suspected that he wore
a wig.
Madame Rasmussen sat down to embroider some cushions to put in the
window, for the chaplain could not bear the slightest draught.