Ole Henriksen stood in his office a few days later. It was in the
afternoon, about three; the weather was clear and calm; the docks were
busy as ever.
Ole walked over to the window and looked out. An enormous coal-steamer was
gliding in from the fiord; masts and rigging pointed skyward everywhere;
cargoes were being unloaded along the wharves. Suddenly he started; the
yacht was gone! He opened his eyes wide. Among all the hundreds of
mastheads none were golden.
He wanted to go out and look into this, but paused at the door. He went
back to his desk again, leaned his head on his hands, and reflected. In
reality the yacht did not belong to him any more; it was hers, Miss
Lynum's; he had given it to her, and the papers were in her keeping. She
had not returned these papers together with the ring; she might have
forgotten it--how could he know? Anyway, the yacht was hers; he had
nothing to do with it. But if it had been stolen? Well, even that was no
affair of his.
Ole took up his pen again, but only for a few moments. Dear me, she used
to sit there on the sofa and sew so busily on the little cushions! They
had been so cute and tiny that it was almost absurd. There she used to
sit; he could see her still....
And Ole wrote again.
Then he opened the door and called out to the clerks that the yacht had
disappeared; what had happened?
One of the clerks informed him that the yacht had been removed this
morning by two men from a lawyer's office; she was anchored outside the
Fortress now.
"Which lawyer?" asked Ole.
The clerk didn't know.
Ole grew curious. The yacht was not his any more, of course; but Miss
Lynum had no business with a lawyer either; there must be a
misunderstanding somewhere. And straightway he went down to the Fortress
landing and made inquiries for a couple of hours. Finally he learned the
name of the lawyer and went to his office.
He saw a man of his own age and asked a few guarded questions.
Yes, it was quite true; he had orders to sell the yacht; as a matter of
fact, he had already advanced a thousand crowns on it. Here were the
papers; Irgens had left them with him, the poet Irgens. He hoped there
were no objections?
None at all.
The lawyer grew more and more polite and cordial; he probably knew
everything about the whole matter, but he did not betray his knowledge.
How much was the yacht worth, did Mr. Henriksen think? Irgens had come to
him with a request that he take charge of this transaction; he had said
that he needed some money at once, and of course one had to stretch a
point where a man like Irgens was concerned. Unfortunately, our men of
talent were not rewarded any too liberally, as a rule; but if there was
the least objection to this sale he would try his best to arrange
everything satisfactorily.
And Ole said again that there was none; he had simply missed the yacht and
wondered what had become of it. And he left.
Now it had become clear why Irgens suddenly had blossomed forth in gay
plumage, rejuvenated from top to toe! The whole town was talking about it;
however, nobody knew the real source of his affluence. That _she_
should do such a thing! Didn't she understand that this was dishonourable,
disgraceful? On the other hand, why was it so disgraceful? Her possessions
were his; they shared lovingly; there was nothing to say to that. In God's
name, let her act as she thought right and proper. She was in town now;
she was going to take a course in the School of Industries. It was quite
natural that she should realise on that bit of a yacht. Could anybody
blame her because she helped her fiancé? On the contrary, it reflected
credit on her.... But she might not even know that the yacht had been put
on the market. Perhaps she had forgotten both yacht and documents and did
not care what became of them. At any rate, she had not wanted to sell the
yacht simply to raise money on her own account--never; he knew her too
well. She had done it for somebody else's sake; that was she. And that was
the important point.
He remembered her so distinctly: her fair curls, her nose, her dimple; she
would be nineteen on the seventh of December. Never mind the yacht; that
didn't matter. He might have wished to save the cushions, but it would
probably be too late for that.
He returned to his office, but could only concentrate his attention on
what was absolutely necessary. He paused frequently and gazed straight
ahead, lost in reflection. What if he should buy back the yacht? Would she
mind, perhaps? God knows; she might think it was done spitefully, with
malice aforethought. It might be better to remain neutral. Yes, that would
be best; what was the use of making a fool of himself?--Miss Lynum and he
were through with each other for ever. Nobody should say that he collected
souvenirs of her.
He closed the office as usual and went out. The street lamps were burning
brightly; the evening was calm. He saw a light in Tidemand's office and
started to go in; but he paused on the stairs and reflected. Tidemand
might be busy; he had better go on.
Hour after hour passed by; he wandered around as in a stupor. How tired
and weary he was! His eyes were half-closed. He found himself in the
vicinity of the park. He turned and strode toward the hills behind the
city. He sat down on a stoop to rest. By and by he looked at his watch; it
was half past eleven. And he sauntered down toward the city again. His
mind was almost a blank.
He turned aside and passed by Tivoli and Sara. What a walk this had been!
To-night he was going to sleep--at last! Outside Sara he stopped abruptly.
He drew back in the shadows slowly, four, six steps; his eyes were staring
fixedly toward the entrance to the cafe. A cab was standing outside.
He had heard Aagot's voice; she came out with Irgens. Irgens appeared
first. Aagot had been delayed by something on the stairs.
"Hurry up, now!" called Irgens.
"Just a moment, Mr. Irgens," said the driver; "the lady is not quite
ready."
"Do you know me?" asked Irgens in surprise.
"I certainly do," said the cabman.
"He knows you! he knows you!" cried Aagot as she stumbled down the steps.
She had not put on her wrap yet; it was dragging after her and she tripped
in it. Her eyes were expressionless and staring. Suddenly she laughed.
"That nasty fellow, Gregersen; he was kicking me on the leg all the time!
I am sure I am black and blue! Imagine, Irgens, the cabby knows you!"
"You are drunk," said Irgens brutally, and helped her into the carriage.
Her hat was awry, she tried to get into her coat and she babbled
incoherently.
"No, I am not drunk; I am only a little cheerful--Won't you see if my leg
is bruised? I am sure I am dripping blood! It hurts, too; but that doesn't
matter; nothing matters now. Drunk, you say? What if I am? It is your
fault. I do everything for your sake--do it gladly--Ha, ha, ha! I have to
laugh when I think of that wretched Gregersen. He told me he would write
the most beautiful article about me if I would only let him see where he
had kicked me. It is different if you see it--That was an awful strong
wine; it makes my head swim--And all those cigarettes!"
"Drive on, damn you!" cried Irgens.
And the carriage rolled off.
Ole stood there and stared after the carriage; his knees shook under him.
He fumbled convulsively with his hands up and down his clothes, around his
chest. So that was Aagot! How they had corrupted her! how they had spoiled
her! Aagot--his Aagot....
Ole sat down on a stoop. A long time passed by.
The lamps outside Sara were extinguished; it grew very dark. An officer
tapped him on the shoulder and said that he could not sit there and sleep.
Ole looked up bewildered. Of course not; he was going now. Thanks! And he
swayed down the street as if he were intoxicated.
He reached home about two o'clock and entered his office. He lit the lamp
and hung his hat mechanically on the rack; his face was drawn and void of
expression. A long hour went by while he strode up and down. Then he
walked over to his desk and commenced to write--letters, documents, brief
lines on various papers which he sealed and filed away. He looked at his
watch; it was half past three. He wound it up mechanically while he held
it. He went out and mailed a letter to Tidemand which he had just written.
Upon his return he took Aagot's letters from the safe and loosened the
string that bound them together.
He did not read any of these letters; he carried them over to the
fireplace and burned them one by one. The last, the very last one, he
pulled halfway-out of its envelope and looked at it a moment; then he
burned also that, without taking out the ring.
The little clock on the wall struck four. A steamer's whistle sounded. Ole
went away from the fireplace. His face was full of anguish; every feature
was distorted; the veins around his temples were swollen. And slowly he
pulled out a little drawer in his desk.
* * * * *
They found Ole Henriksen dead in the morning; he had shot himself. The
lamp was burning on the desk; a few sealed letters were lying on the
blotter; he himself lay stretched on the floor.
In the letter to Tidemand he had asked to be forgiven because he could not
come for the last time and thank him for his friendship. He had to finish
it all now; he could not live another day; he was sick unto death. The
country house he gave to Tidemand in memory of everything. "It will
probably bring you more pleasure than it brought me," he wrote; "it is
yours, my friend; accept it from me. Mrs. Hanka will be glad to have it;
remember me to her. And if you ever should find Miss Lynum in need of
help, be good to her; I saw her this evening, but she did not see me. I
cannot collect my thoughts and write to you as I would like to. One thing
only is clear to me, and that thing I will have to do in half an hour."
A picture of Aagot was still in his pocketbook; he had probably forgotten
to burn it. He had also forgotten to send the two or three telegrams he
had carried in his pocket since the previous afternoon; they were found on
him. He had spoken truly: to him only one thing was clear!