Consul Garman's death caused a great sensation in the town. The
wonderful escape of the ship was already material enough for several
weeks' gossip; and now there came this death, with all its immediate
circumstances and possible consequences. The whole town was fairly
buzzing with stories and gossip.
The business men gave each other a knowing wink. The old man at
Sandsgaard had been a hard nut to crack, but now they would have more
elbow-room, and Morten was not so dangerous.
The preparations for the funeral were on the grandest scale. The body
was to be taken from Sandsgaard and laid in the church, where Dean
Sparre was to deliver a discourse, while the chaplain was to conduct the
funeral service at the cemetery.
All the different guilds were to follow with their banners, and the town
band was busy practising till late at night. A regular committee of
management was formed, and there was almost as much stir as if it was
the 17th of May.[B]
[Footnote B: Anniversary of the declaration of the
Norwegian Independence in 1814.]
Jacob Worse did not take any part in all this. He truly regretted the
Consul, who had always been almost like a father to him.
Mrs. Worse was more annoyed than sorry. "It was too bad, it was really
too bad," she grumbled, "of the Consul to go and die!" She was sure that
he would have arranged the match, such a sensible man as he was; but now
that there were nothing but a lot of women in the house--for the
_attaché_ was little better than an old woman himself--And so on, and so
on, thought the old lady, and she wondered that Rachel, who had such a
clever father, had not inherited a little more sense.
Sandsgaard was silent and desolate from top to bottom. The body lay
upstairs in the little room on the north side, and white curtains were
hanging in front of all the windows of the second story. Not a sound was
heard, except the monotonous step of one, who went pacing unceasingly to
and fro in the empty rooms. Thus had Uncle Richard been wandering every
day since his brother's death. Restlessly he passed in and out of one
room after another, then up and down the long ballroom; now and again
into the room where the body lay, ever to and fro, in and out, the whole
livelong day, and far into the night.
Rachel was more grieved at the loss of her father than she could have
believed possible during his lifetime. But a change had lately taken
place in her nature; she, who was so exacting towards others, was now
brought to examine herself, and could see how much there was in her own
nature which required reform. She could now see plainly enough, that it
was principally her own fault that she and her father had not understood
each other better. It was only during his illness, that they had both
come to know how many ideas they had in common, and what they might have
been to each other. Now it was too late, and she looked back on her
wasted life with regret; for Jacob Worse's idea seemed to her quite
impracticable.
The day before the funeral, Madeleine was sitting in the room which
looked on to the garden. It was a raw, cold spring morning, with a
drizzling rain from the south-west, and she had been obliged to close
the window. Upstairs she could hear her father's heavy footfall, which
came nearer, passed overhead, and then became lost in the distance.
Never had she felt so oppressed, sick at heart, and lonely as in that
house, in which there reigned the silence which always seems to
accompany death.
A knock was heard at the door, and Pastor Martens entered the room. Mrs.
Garman had particularly invited him to pay them a visit every day.
"Good morning, Miss Madeleine. How do you feel to-day?"
"Thanks," answered she, "I am pretty well; I mean about as well as I
usually am."
"That means, I am afraid, not particularly well," said the clergyman,
sympathetically. "If I were your doctor I should order you to go
somewhere for a change this summer."
He still kept his hat in his hand, and remained standing near the window
which led into the garden. Madeleine was sitting on the end of the sofa
at the other end of the room.
"This is a gloomy day for so late in the spring," observed Mr. Martens,
looking into the garden; "and a house like this, to which Death has
brought his sad tidings, is a mournful place."
She listened to him, keeping her eyes fixed on the ground, and without
returning a word.
"A house like this," he continued, "in which death is lying, is a
picture of the lives of many of us. How many of us carry death at our
hearts! Some hope or another that for us has long passed away, or some
bitter disappointment that we have buried in the depths of our soul."
He could see that she bent her head lower over the sofa, and he went on
speaking earnestly and soothingly, and almost to himself.
"Since it is a good thing for us not to be alone; since it is good for
us to have some one to cling to, when the bitter experiences of life
cast their shadows over us, so--"
Madeleine suddenly burst into tears, and her sobs reached his ears.
"I beg your pardon," said he, coming close to the sofa. "I was but
following the bent of my own thoughts, and I fear I have made you
unhappy, when my object ought rather to have been to endeavour to cheer
you. Poor child!"
Her sobbing had now become so violent that she did not any longer try to
conceal her emotion.
"Dear Miss Madeleine," said the pastor, seating himself on the sofa at a
little distance from her, "I am sure you are not well--I have observed
it for some time; and you may imagine how painful it is for me to see
you thus suffering, without having any right to offer you my
assistance."
"You have always been so good to me," sobbed Madeleine. "But no one can
help me, I am so wretched--so wretched!"
"Do not indulge such thoughts, my dear young lady; do not allow yourself
to think that any feeling of wretchedness is so great that it cannot be
mitigated. Intercourse with the friend who understands our nature has a
wonderfully soothing power over the sick heart. And for that very
reason," added he, with a sigh, "I feel it doubly painful that you will
not allow me to be such a friend to you."
"I cannot," stammered Madeleine in dismay. "Do not be angry with me. I
do not mean to be ungrateful. You are the only one--But I am so
nervous--I don't understand it all. But don't be angry with me;" and she
held her hand a little nearer to him.
Pastor Martens took the hand, and pressed it gently between his own.
"You know I mean to be kind to you, Miss Madeleine," said he, in an
earnest and soothing tone.
"Yes, yes, I know you do. But do you believe--" and her eye rested on
him with an earnest expression.
"I am afraid your mind is disturbed; but I hope that I may be able to be
a trustworthy guide for you through life. You have been unwilling to
accept me, and I will not importune you; but I must tell you that
everything I have is at your service."
"But if I am unable--but if it is too much for me. No, I cannot!" she
replied, hiding her face in her hands.
His voice was kind, almost fatherly in its tone, as he moved nearer to
her and said, "Tell me, Madeleine, do not you feel as if it was almost a
dispensation of Providence? When I asked you for your hand, you rejected
my offer hastily--without consideration, may I venture to say? That hand
now lies in mine." She made an attempt to withdraw it, but he held it
fast. "Here are we again brought together. Is it not as if you were
destined to be mine--you who are so lonely and forsaken amongst your own
relations? You do feel lonely, Madeleine, do you not?"
"Oh yes; I do feel lonely--so dreadfully lonely," said she,
disconsolately; and whether he now drew her to him, or whether she gave
way of herself, she now lay with her head on his shoulder, wearied and
helpless. And, as his voice sounded bland and soothing in her ears, she
seemed to recover her breath, as if after a long period of oppression.
In a moment she was on her feet: he had ventured to kiss her brow. He
also rose, but still retained his grasp of her hand.
"We will not tell any one about it to-day," he said reassuringly,
"because of the affliction which has come upon your family. But we had
better go to Mrs. Garman, and ask her blessing. With respect to your
father----"
"No! no!" she cried; "father must not know anything about it! Oh,
heavens! what have I done?" she murmured, holding her hand before her
eyes.
A bland smile passed over his face as he took her arm in his. "You are
still a little discomposed, child, but it will soon pass away." He then
led her to Mrs. Garman's room.
"Could not we wait till to-morrow? My head is so painful," entreated
Madeleine.
"We will only just show ourselves to your aunt," said he, quietly but
decidedly, as he opened the door.
They found Mrs. Garman in her room, sitting comfortably in her armchair.
Before her she had a tray, on which stood a bottle of water and a small
straw-covered flask of curaçoa. On a plate was some chicken, which had
been cut into small pieces and neatly arranged round the edge, and in
the middle was a little shape of asparagus butter, garnished with some
chopped parsley.
When Madeleine and the pastor entered the room, she was just in the act
of holding a piece of chicken on a fork and dipping it into the butter,
but when she saw them she put down her fork with an air of indifference,
and said, "I hope, Madeleine, you will not forget to thank the Lord for
thus changing your obstinate heart; and for you, Mr. Martens, I will
hope and pray that you will never have to repent the step you have
taken."
For a moment Madeleine's eyes seemed to flash, but Mr. Martens hastened
to observe, "My dear Madeleine is quite overcome. Would you not rather
go to your room? We shall meet again to-morrow."
Madeline felt really thankful for his suggestion, and gave him a feeble
smile as he followed her to the door.
When the pastor had gone, Mrs. Garman could not help thinking how
differently people behave as soon as they are engaged. She suspected
that she would not find the chaplain's society so agreeable for the
future.
Pastor Martens was so overjoyed that he could scarcely take his usual
midday nap. Later in the day it began to clear up; it was only a sea-fog
which had come up during the night, as is frequently the case in the
spring. Everything appeared radiant and bright to Martens as he came
along the street from the jeweller's, where he had been to order the
ring, but he took care not to show his feelings; it would not do to look
too pleased on the day before the funeral of his intended's uncle.
In the market-place he met Mr. Johnsen.
"You are coming to the funeral to-morrow?" said Martens, insensibly
leading the conversation into the direction of his own thoughts.
"No," answered Johnsen, drily; "I have to give an address at the Mission
Bazaar."
"What, between twelve and two? Why, the whole town will be following the
funeral."
"It is for the women, my address," said the inspector, as he continued
his way.
"Well," thought Martens, "he is indeed changed! Prayer-meetings,
missions, Bible-readings--quite a different kind of work!" said the
chaplain mysteriously to himself. His feelings were almost too much for
him.
A little farther up the street he met Delphin on horseback. There was
such an unusual expression on the clergyman's face, that Delphin pulled
up his horse and called out, "Good morning, Mr. Martens! Is it the
thought of the discourse you have to deliver to-morrow that makes you
look so pleased?"
"Discourse! discourse!" thought the chaplain. He had never prepared it.
It was well indeed he had been thus reminded. However, he answered, "If
notwithstanding my--or perhaps I ought to say our--sorrow, I do look
rather more cheerful than I ought under the circumstances, I only do so
from something which has happened to myself. It is purely on personal
grounds."
"And may I venture to ask what the circumstances are which make you look
so happy?" asked Delphin, carelessly.
"Well, it ought not really to be told to any one to-day, but I think I
may venture to tell you," said the pastor, in a calm voice. "I have
proposed to a lady, and have had the good fortune to be accepted."
"Indeed? I congratulate you!" cried the other gaily. "I think, too, I
can guess who it is." His thoughts turned on Madam Rasmussen.
"Yes, I dare say you can," answered Martens, quietly. "It is Miss
Garman--Madeleine, I mean."
"It's a lie!" shouted Delphin, grasping his riding-whip.
The pastor cautiously took two or three steps backwards on the footpath,
raised his hat, and continued his way.
But Delphin rode off rapidly down the road, and away past Sandsgaard,
ever faster and faster, till his steed was covered with foam. He had
ridden four miles without noticing where he was going. The coast became
flat and sandy, the patches of cultivation ceased, and the open sea lay
before him. The sun shone on the blue expanse, while far out lay the
mist like a wall, as if ready to return again at night.
Delphin put his horse up at a farmhouse, and went on foot over the sand.
The vast and peaceful ocean seemed to attract him. He felt a longing to
be alone with his thoughts, longer, indeed, than was his usual custom.
George Delphin was not often given to serious thought--his nature was
too frivolous and unstable; but to-day he felt that there must be a
reckoning, and on the very verge of the sea he threw himself on the
sand, which was now warmed by the afternoon sun. At first his thoughts
surged like the billows over which he gazed. He was furious with Pastor
Martens. Who could have believed that he, George Delphin, should have
suffered himself to be supplanted by a chaplain, and, more than that, a
widower? And Madeleine! how could she have accepted him? And the more
his thoughts turned upon her, the more he felt how truly he loved her.
How different it might have been! Yes, many things might have been
different in his life, when he came to review it fairly. His thoughts
then fell upon Jacob Worse, who had lately quite given him up. It had
often happened to Delphin that people did not remain friends with him
long. It was only Fanny who did not give him up. He made one more effort
to bring up her image in his thoughts, in all its most enchanting
beauty, but he failed in the effort. Madeleine seemed to overshadow
everything. Then his thoughts reverted to Martens, and his agony
returned. He seemed no longer to have any aim in life, which had been so
utterly wasted, useless and desolate, and he began to regard himself
with loathing, friendless as he was, and thus entangled in an intrigue
with one for whom he had no affection, and despised by her whose love he
really longed for.
All this time the mist was stealing in light wreaths over the shore; it
came gliding beyond the line of the waves, and on over the sand. It
paused for an instant at the man who was thus lying in despair, then
stole on further, and finally settled behind the sand-hills. The grey
wall of mist had now attained such a height that it obscured the evening
sun, so that the landscape became all at once cold and grey, whilst the
fog went scudding along, denser and denser every moment.
Delphin stretched himself on the sand, wearied with his long ride and
his bitter thoughts. The long white breakers came curling ever nearer
and nearer, as they broke on the beach with their subdued and monotonous
roar.
He could not but think how easy it would be to have done with the life
altogether, which now seemed to him of so little worth. He had but to
roll himself down the sandy slope, and the waves would take his body
into their embrace, and, after rocking him on their bosom, perhaps bear
him far away and leave him on a distant shore. But he felt full well
that he had not the courage; and as he lay there, thus pondering over
his past life, he fell into a reverie, while the breakers murmured their
monotonous song, and the mist, which was borne up on the light evening
breeze, breathed over him cold and chill.
The landscape assumed a general tone of grey. The mist stole on, still
more close and compact, and the form of him who lay by the waves became
more and more indistinct. At last he was gone; the sea raised her mantle
and wiped him out, while the fog drifted inland thick as a wall, and,
reaching the first dwellings, swept round the corners of the houses, and
sent cold gusts in at the open doors and windows.
But swifter than the mist, closer and ever more penetrating, swept the
report of the chaplain's engagement through the town. It crept in
through cracks and keyholes, filled houses from cellar to garret, and
stood so thick in the street that it stopped the traffic.
"Have you heard the news? They are engaged? Guess! where? who? Miss
Garman; I heard it an hour ago! Have you heard the news? It's the
chaplain who is engaged! Well, I am surprised! They might have waited
till after the funeral. Are you sure? He has been at the jeweller's!
Have you heard the news?"
Thus it spread, buzz, buzz, from house to house; and when at length the
weary town went to its bed, there was certainly not a soul who had not
heard of the engagement from at least five separate people. It was a
wonderful time, rich in important events.
But just as one sometimes sees a little brawling and muddy brook flowing
into a clear stream, and following along in its course, but ever keeping
its little band of dirty brown water separate from the translucent
river, even so there followed with the news of the great event, a little
whisper of uncomfortable gossip. It always accompanied the main story,
cropping up everywhere, whispered, muttered, doubted, but never
contradicted; and this little bit of intelligence was, that Pastor
Martens wore a wig. It was scarcely credible, but it was undeniable;
Madame Rasmussen herself was the authority.