IV

It was several days later before Aagot went home. Irgens had not persisted

in vain. He had succeeded, and now he reaped the reward of all his labour.

Aagot was with him continually. She was as much in love with him as she

could be. She clung to his neck.

The days passed by.

Finally a telegram arrived from Ole, and Aagot woke from her trance. The

wire had been sent to Torahus. It reached her after much delay. Ole was in

London.

Well, what was to be done? Ole was in London, but he was not here yet. She

did not remember clearly how he looked. Dark, with blue eyes; tall, with a

stray wisp of hair which always fell across his forehead. Whenever she

thought of him he seemed to belong to an age long past. How long, long it

was since he went away!

The telegram stirred to life again her dormant feelings for the absent

one. She trembled with the old sense of possession. She whispered his name

and blessed him for his goodness. She called him to her, blushing

breathlessly. No, nobody was like him! He did not wrong anybody. He walked

his straightforward way, guileless and upright. How he loved her! Little

mistress, little mistress! His breast was so warm! She grew warm herself

when she nestled close to him. How he could look up from a row of figures

and smile!... Oh, she had not forgotten!...

She packed her belongings resolutely and wanted to go home in spite of

everything. The evening before she left she said good-bye to Irgens, a

protracted good-bye which rent her heart. She was his now, and Ole would

probably get over it. She made up her mind. She would go home and she

would cancel her engagement as soon as Ole returned. What would he say

when he read her letter with the ring enclosed? She writhed at the thought

that she wouldn't be near him to comfort him. She had to strike him from

afar! And thus it had to end!

Irgens was full of tenderness and cheered her as much as he could. They

should not be separated for long. If nothing else turned up he would walk

up to her on his feet! Besides, she could get back to town; she wasn't a

pauper exactly; she even owned a yacht, a real yacht--what more did she

want? And Aagot smiled at this jest and felt relieved.

The door was locked; they were alone. Everything was quiet; they heard

their hearts beat. And they said farewell to each other.

Irgens would not take her to the train. It might give rise to too much

gossip; the town was so small and he was, unfortunately, so well known.

But they would write, write every day; otherwise she would never be able

to endure the separation....

Tidemand was the only one who knew of Aagot's departure and who followed

her to the train. He was paying his usual call to Henriksen's office

during the afternoon and was having his daily chat with the old man. As he

left he met Aagot outside: she was ready to go. Tidemand accompanied her

and carried her valise; her trunk had been sent ahead.

It had rained and the streets were muddy. Aagot said several times:

"What a disagreeable, mournful day!"

They hardly spoke. Aagot simply said:

"It was very kind of you to come with me; otherwise I should have been

altogether alone." And Tidemand noticed that she tried to appear

unconcerned. She smiled, but her eyes were moist.

He, too, smiled and said comfortingly that he was glad she was going to

leave all this mud and filth; now she was going to the country, to cleaner

roads, to purer air. These few words were all they spoke. They stood in

the train-shed beneath the glass vault. It had begun to rain, and they

heard the drops beating on the roof while the engine stood wheezing on the

track. Aagot entered her compartment and gave Tidemand her hand. And in a

sudden desire to be forgiven, to be judged charitably, she said to this

stranger, whom she knew so slightly:

"Good-bye--And do not judge me too harshly!" and she coloured deeply.

"But, child!" he said amazed. He had no time to say more.

She put her fair little face out of the window and nodded as the train

moved along. Her eyes were wet, and she struggled not to break down. She

looked at Tidemand as long as she could see him, then she waved a tiny

handkerchief.

The strange girl! Her unaffected simplicity moved him. He did not stop

waving until the train was out of sight. Not judge her too harshly? He

certainly wouldn't! And if he ever had been tempted to, he would know

better in the future. She had waved to him--almost a stranger! He would be

sure and tell Ole--how that would please him!...

* * * * *

Tidemand walked toward his own wharf. He was very busy. He was altogether

taken up with his affairs. His business was steadily growing. He had been

forced to take on several of his old employees. At present he was shipping

tar.

When he had given his orders in the warehouse, he walked over to the

restaurant where he usually took his meals. It was late. He ate hurriedly

and spoke to no one. He was engrossed in thought about a new enterprise he

had in mind. His tar was going to Spain. The rye held firm, with good

prices; he sold steadily, his business began to stretch forth new arms.

There was that new tannery near Torahus. How would it do if one gave a

little thought to a tar-manufacturing plant alongside? He really was going

to speak to Ole about that. He had had it in mind several weeks. He had

even consulted an engineer about it. There were the cuttings and the tops.

If the tannery took the bark, why shouldn't the tar plant take the wood?

Tidemand walked home. It rained steadily.

A few steps from his office entrance he stopped abruptly; then he sidled

quietly into an area-way. He stared straight ahead. His wife was standing

out there in the rain, outside his office. She was gazing, now at his

office windows, now up to the second story. There she stood. He could not

be mistaken, and his breath came in gasps. Once before he had seen her

there. She had circled around in the shadows beneath the street lamps,

just as now. He had called her name in a low voice, and she had

immediately hurried around the street corner without looking back. This

happened a Sunday evening three weeks ago. And now she was here again.

He wanted to step forward. He made a movement and his raincoat rustled.

She glanced around quickly and hurried away. He stood immovable where he

was until she had disappeared.

V

Ole Henriksen returned a week later. He had become uneasy. He had

telegraphed to Aagot again and again, but could get no reply. He finished

up his business in a hurry and returned. But so far was he from suspecting

the true condition of affairs that on the very last afternoon in London he

bought her a little present, a carriage for her fiord pony on Torahus.

And on his desk he found Aagot's letter with her ring enclosed.

Ole Henriksen read the letter almost without grasping its meaning. His

hands commenced to tremble, and his eyes were staring. He went over and

locked the office door, and read the letter once more. It was brief and to

the point; it could not be misunderstood; she gave him back his "freedom."

And there was the ring, wrapped in tissue-paper. No, he could hardly be

uncertain as to the meaning of that letter.

And Ole Henriksen drifted back and forth in his office for several hours.

He placed the letter on his desk and walked with hands tightly clasped

behind him. He took the letter again and read it once more. He was "free"!

He must not think that she did not love him, she had written. She thought

of him as much as ever; yes, more even. She begged his forgiveness a

hundred times every day. But what good was it if she thought of him ever

so much? she continued. She was his no more, it had come to that. But she

had not surrendered at once, nor without a struggle; God knows that she

had loved him so dearly, and that she did not want to belong to anybody

but to him. However, it had gone entirely too far now; she would only ask

him to judge her kindly, though she did not deserve it, and not to grieve

over her.

The letter was dated twice. She had not noticed that. It was written in

Aagot's large, childish hand, and was touching in its simplicity; she had

made several corrections.

Yes, he had understood it clearly; and, besides, there was the ring. After

all, what did _he_ amount to? He was no prominent man, known all over

the country; he was no genius who could interest a girl greatly; he was

just an ordinary toiler, a business man--that was all. He should have

known better than imagine he would be allowed to keep Aagot's heart for

himself. Just see how he had fooled himself! Of course, he attended to his

business and worked conscientiously early and late, but that could not

make people fond of him. There was nothing to say to that. Anyhow, he knew

now why his telegrams had remained unanswered. He ought to have understood

it at once, but he hadn't.... She had gone entirely too far. She said

goodbye and loved somebody else. Nothing could be done about that. If she

loved somebody else, then.... It was probably Irgens--he would get her

after all. Tidemand had been right. It was dangerous with these many

boat-rides and walks; Tidemand had had experience. Well, it was too late

to think of that now. However, one's love could not have been so very

firmly rooted if a walk or two had been enough to break it down....

And suddenly the anger blazed up in the poor fellow. He walked more

rapidly and his forehead flamed. She had gone entirely too far. That was

his reward for the love he had lavished on her! He had knelt before a

hussy. He had let that miserable lover of hers cheat him openly for years!

He could prove it by the ledger--look here--now Aagot's fine friend had

been hard up for ten, now for fifty crowns! And he, Ole Henriksen, had

even been afraid that Aagot some day might chance to see the poet's

account in his books. He had finally put away the ledger, entirely out of

regard for the great man's feelings. It was a most suitable partnership;

they were worthy of each other. The poet had something to write about now,

a splendid subject! Ha, he must not grieve too much over her; she could

not stand that; she might even lose sleep over it! Think of that! But who

had said that he would grieve? She was mistaken. He might have knelt

before her, but he hadn't licked her boots; no, he would hardly be

compelled to take to his bed on account of this. She need not worry; she

need not weep scalding tears on his account. So she had jilted him; she

returned his ring. What of it? But why had she dragged the ring all the

way up to Torahus? Why hadn't she simply left it on his desk and saved the

postage? Good-bye; good riddance! Go to the devil with your silk-lined

deceiver, and never let me hear of you again!...

He wrung his hands in anguish and paced back and forth with long, furious

strides. He would take it like a man. He would fling his own ring in her

face and end the comedy quickly. He stopped at the desk and tore the ring

off his finger, wrapped it up, and put it in an envelope. He wrote the

address in large, brutal letters; his hand trembled violently. Somebody

knocked. He flung the letter into a drawer and closed it hastily.

It was one of his clerks who came to remind him that it was late. Should

he close up?

"Yes, close up. But wait; I am through now; I am going, too. Bring me the

keys."

Nobody should be able to say that he broke down because of a shabby trick

like this. He would show people that he could keep his composure. He might

go to the Grand and celebrate his return with a plain glass of beer! That

would be just the thing. He had no intention of avoiding people. He had a

revolver lying in a desk drawer; but had he wanted to use that, even for

the briefest moment? Had he _thought_ of it even? Not at all. It just

occurred to him now that it might be getting rusty. No, thank God! one was

not exactly weary of life....

Ole Henriksen went to the Grand.

He sat down at a table and ordered his glass of beer. A moment later he

felt somebody slap him on the shoulder. He looked up; it was Milde.

"Good old boy!" shouted Milde. "Are you sitting here without saying a

word? Welcome back! Come over to the window; you will find a couple of the

fellows there."

Ole went over to the window. There were Ojen, Norem, and Gregersen, all of

them with half-empty wine-glasses in front of them. Ojen jumped up and

said pleasantly:

"Welcome home, old man! I am glad to see you again. I have missed you a

good deal. I am coming down to-morrow to see you. There is something I

want to see you about."

Gregersen gave him a finger. Ole took it, sat down, and told the waiter to

bring him his beer.

"What! are you drinking beer? No, beer will never do on this occasion; it

must be wine!"

"Well, drink what you want to. I am drinking beer."

Just then Irgens arrived, and Milde called to him: "Ole is drinking beer,

but we are not going to do that. What do you say?"

Irgens did not show the least sign of embarrassment when he faced Ole; he

barely nodded and said indifferently: "Welcome home!" And Ole looked at

him and noticed that his cuffs were not entirely clean; as a matter of

fact, his dress was not quite up to his usual standard.

But Milde repeated his question: wasn't it a little too commonplace to

drink beer at a double celebration?

"A double celebration?" asked Gregersen.

"Exactly--yes. In the first place, Ole has returned, and that is of the

greatest importance to us at present; I frankly admit that. But I have, in

the second place, just been dispossessed from my studio, and that has also

a certain solemn significance. What do you think? The landlady came and

wanted money. 'Money?' I asked in amazement, and so on and so on. But the

outcome was that I was put out, without notice--only a couple of hours'.

Ha, ha! I have never heard of such a notice. Of course, she had already

given me her ultimatum a month ago; still--I had to leave a couple of

finished canvases. But I think this ought to be celebrated in wine, for

Ole does not care what we drink."

"Of course not; why should I care?" asked Ole.

And the gentlemen drank industriously. They grew well disposed and

cheerful before they took their departure. Irgens was first to leave; then

Ojen followed. Ole remained until they had all gone, all except Norem, who

sat there as usual and slumbered. He had listened to the talk.

Occasionally he had injected a word. He had grown weary and subdued; a

bitter disgust had taken possession of him and made him dully indifferent

to everything.

At last he got up and paid his check.

The waiter halted him.

"Pardon me," he said, "but the wine--"

"The wine?" asked Ole. "I have only had a couple of glasses of beer."

"Yes, but the wine isn't paid for."

So the gentlemen hadn't paid their checks? For a moment the hot anger

blazed up in him again; he was on the point of saying that if they would

send the bill to Torahus it would be paid instantly. But he said: "All

right; I can pay it, I suppose."

But what should he do at home? Go to bed and sleep? If he only could! He

turned into the darkest streets in order to be alone. He was going

homeward, but he swung aside and walked toward the Fortress.

Here he suddenly came across Tidemand. He was standing in front of a dark

gateway gazing at the house opposite. What could Tidemand be doing there?

Ole walked over to him. They looked at each other in surprise.

"I am taking a walk, a little walk," said Tidemand somewhat sheepishly. "I

came by here by accident--Thank goodness, you are back, Ole! Welcome home!

Let us get away from here!"

Tidemand could not get over his surprise. He had not known that Ole was

back. Everything was all right at the office; he had called on the old man

regularly, as he had promised.

"And your sweetheart has gone away," he continued. "I went with her to the

train. She is a darling girl! She was a little upset because she was going

away; she stood there and looked at me with real shining eyes; you know

how she is. And as the train went off she took out her handkerchief and

waved to me--waved so sweetly, just because I had come with her. You ought

to have seen her; she was lovely."

"Well, I am not engaged any more," said Ole in a hollow voice.

* * * * *

Ole went into his office. It was late at night. He had walked with

Tidemand a long time and told him everything. He was going to write a

letter to Aagot's parents, respectful and dignified, without reproaches.

He felt he ought to do that.

When he had finished this letter he read Aagot's once more. He wanted to

tear it to pieces and burn it up, but he paused and placed it in front of

him on the desk. It was at least a letter from her, the last. She had sat

there and written to him and thought of him while she wrote. She had held

the paper with her tiny hands, and there her pen had scratched. She had

probably wiped it on something and dipped it and written on. That letter

was for him, for no one else. Everybody had probably been in bed while she

wrote.

He took the ring out of its wrapping and looked at it for a long time. He

was sorry that he had lost his temper and said words which he now

regretted. He took them back, every one. Good-bye, then, Aagot....

And he placed Aagot's last letter with the others.