up-to-date sort--eh, what? Ah, you're the man for the girls, no doubt
about that."
"Really, Mr. Oiland, I don't know what you mean. Party--girls--I
never heard of such a thing."
Peter then fell to telling stories, in the course of which one after
another of the delegates disappeared. When he came to the story of
the clerk who handed the parson his cassock with the words: "Tch!
steady, old hoss, till I get your harness on," the last one left the
room; no one was left now but the little commercial, who had found
his way back again, and was thoroughly enjoying it all. The sea was
calm now, and the moon was up, so the pair seated themselves on deck.
And in the course of the evening the delegates below, endeavouring to
get to sleep in their respective berths, were entertained by a series
of drinking-songs much favoured by the wilder youth of the
universities, Peter Oiland singing one part and the commercial
traveller the other.
The pair were so pleased with each other's company that the
commercial, whose name was Klingenstein--"Goloshes and rubber goods,"
decided not to land at Arendal as he had intended, but to go on to
Stavanger instead. Peter Oiland recommended this course, as offering,
perhaps--who could say--an opportunity for getting into touch with
the South Sea Islands, and selling goloshes to the heathen.
"As a matter of fact," Peter added, "I know a man in Stavanger who
lived some years on one of the South Sea Islands, personal friend of
Queen Nabagadale; useful man to know." There was then every reason to
believe that Klingenstein might open up a new market in elastic
stockings and such like.
The moon went down about midnight, and Peter Oiland thought he might
as well do likewise. Thoroughly pleased with himself and all the
world, he went below and found his way to his cabin. The upper berth
was occupied by a man in a big woollen nightcap. "Evening!" said
Peter in the friendliest tone, as he sat down to take off his boot.
"Sir," said the gentleman in the nightcap, "permit me to observe that
you might have a little consideration for people who wish to rest."
"Delighted, I'm sure," said Peter. "But what's the matter? Can't you
get to sleep? Awful nuisance, insomnia, I know."
"Well, when people are so tactless as to sit up on deck just over
one's head, stamping and shouting out ribald songs...."
But before his indignant fellow-passenger could finish his sentence,
Peter Oiland was in his berth and snoring--snoring so emphatically,
indeed, that he of the nightcap, after having listened to this new
melody for three solid hours, got up in despair and went off to lie
down on a sofa in the saloon.
Peter Oiland slept like a mummy till ten o'clock next morning, not
even waking when the steamer touched at her two ports of call.
Coming on deck, he could not fail to perceive that the other
delegates were somewhat cold and reserved in their manner towards
him, while as for Sukkestad, he had retired to an obscure corner of
the second-class quarters.
"Poor fellow, he's not used to travelling," thought Peter Oiland. "I
must go and cheer him up a bit." And he went across to Sukkestad and
asked if he didn't feel like something to eat.
Sukkestad was not inclined to be friendly at first, but Oiland took
no heed; on the contrary, he took his reluctant colleague by the arm
and dragged him off, willy nilly, to the dining-saloon. There was an
excellent spread, hot and cold meats, and Peter Oiland's heart warmed
at the sight.
Klingenstein was already seated and hard at work on the viands, with
serviette tucked under his chin; he rose, however, and bowed in fine
style as Oiland made the introduction: "Mr. Krickke--beg pardon,
Sukkestad--Mr. Vingentein--er, I should say, Klingenstein." The two
new acquaintances looked at one another rather blankly for a moment,
then both stared at Oiland, who, however, appeared entirely
unconcerned, and fell to with excellent appetite upon a generous
helping of steak and onions.
Oiland ordered a bottle of beer and a schnapps, whereat Sukkestad
shook his head mournfully, and inquired whether he really thought
that was good for his health. Oiland, however, declared it was good
for sea-sickness, and he never felt easy on board ship without it.
Sukkestad grew thoughtful. What would happen when they got to
Stavanger? He wished he could get out of it somehow, and go back home
again.
At last the voyage was over, the two delegates went ashore and put up
at the Hotel Norge.
The first thing Sukkestad noticed, on coming down into the hall, was
the name "Plukkestad" written on the board against the number of his
room. This was too much; he rubbed out the offending letters with his
own hand, and wrote instead, with emphatic distinction, "C. A.
Sukkestad." He strongly suspected Oiland of being the culprit; he had
gone downstairs a few minutes before, but having no proof he
preferred to say nothing about it.
Sukkestad was now thoroughly ill at ease; his one constant thought
was to find himself safely home again without any scandal. He saw
little of Oiland the first day; the schoolmaster had hired a carriage
and set off round the town to see the sights. In the evening, Oiland
asked how the meeting had gone off that day, and if anyone had
noticed his absence. Sukkestad answered emphatically, "No," inwardly
hoping that Peter would not appear at the meetings still to come.
"Well, I think I've seen about all there is to see in this old
place--Harbour, Cathedral, Town Hall, Mirror House, and statues of
famous men--done it pretty thoroughly, I should say."
At the meeting on the following day Peter turned up, and astonished
the assembly by delivering a long harangue on "The Civilising
Influence of Missionary Work." Sukkestad nearly fainted.
Peter's speech produced a great effect, the listeners growing more
and more interested as he went on. "Who is he--what's his name?
You've got a regular speaker there, Sukkestad." Sukkestad was utterly
at a loss, but vowed never again to expose himself to such surprises,
either of one sort or the other.
At last the conference was ended, and the two delegates from
Strandvik set out for home.
It was with great relief that Sukkestad found himself on board the
steamer; Peter might do what he pleased now, for all he cared. As it
turned out, however, Peter was amiability itself towards his
travelling companion, though the latter did not seem to appreciate
his attention, but endeavoured to keep to himself--a matter of some
difficulty on board a small steamboat. An hour before they got in to
Strandvik, Oiland came up to him and begged the favour of a "serious
word" with him. Sukkestad wondered what on earth was coming, as the
other took him by the arm and dragged him off to the forepart of the
ship.
"I have had the pleasure of being a frequent guest in your house,"
Peter began, buttonholing Sukkestad as if to make sure he did not
escape.
"I shouldn't have thought it could be any pleasure to you," put in
Sukkestad dryly.
"It has indeed, my dear fellow; and I have the more reason to say so,
since your daughter Andrea----"
"What?"
"Forgive my saying so, Mr. Sukkestad, but your daughter has made a
deep impression on me."
"Really, Mr. Oiland, this...." Sukkestad trembled at what was to
come.
"A deep impression on me. And I think I may venture to say that she
herself----"
"Pardon me, Mr. Oiland. My daughter has no feelings in any matter
before consulting her father's wishes."
"Oh, but she has, my dear father-in-law, I assure you."
"Father-in-law Mr. Oiland, this is most unseemly jesting." Sukkestad
tried to break away, but Peter held him fast.
"But, my dear sir, what objection can you have to the match? We've
always got on splendidly together, and I'm sure this present voyage,
and our little adventures on the way, will always be among our most
cherished memories--won't they, now?"
"Oh, this is too much! I would recommend you, Mr. Oiland----"
"Most kind of you. I was sure you would. And I'm quite an eligible
suitor, really, you know. Got my degree--rather low on the list, I
confess, but, anyhow.... I ought to tell you, though, that I don't
propose to enter the Church."
"Something to be thankful for at least," said Sukkestad.
"So glad you agree with me. Delighted, really. Well, my dear fellow,
I can understand you're a little overwhelmed just at the moment, but
we can settle the details when we're at home and at leisure. We're
agreed on the essential point, so that's all right."
Oiland let go his hold, and Sukkestad hurried off to his cabin and
began getting his things together in feverish haste. What, give his
daughter, his only child, to a fellow like that? Never!
They got in without further event, and parted on the quay, Oiland
shaking hands fervently with a hearty "Thanks for your pleasant
company," while Sukkestad murmured absently: "Not at all, not at
all."
Sukkestad had hardly got inside the house when Andrea came rushing up
to him. "Oh, wasn't it a lovely speech of Oiland's? The parson's just
been in and told us; simply splendid, he says it was."
"Well, my child, that's a matter of opinion."
"Oh, father, you're always so severe," said Andrea, turning away with
tears in her eyes.
A quarter of an hour later Sukkestad and his wife were unpacking in
the bedroom, and a serious conference took place between the two. He
recounted Oiland's behaviour on the voyage. "And I do hope things
haven't gone so far between them as he says," observed Sukkestad
sternly, with a meaning glance at his wife. The latter turned away,
wiping her eyes on a corner of her apron, and sniffing the while.
"Marie, you don't mean to say you've been a party to it yourself?"
"I--yes--no, that is---- Oh, don't be angry with me. I did think he
was such a nice man, really I did."
"Well, we must see what can be done," said Sukkestad.
That evening it was decided that Andrea should be sent as a Warder to
the Moravian Mission at Kristiansfeldt.
Andrea wept bitterly, but to no purpose; she had to go, whether she
liked it or not.
Peter Oiland came several times to the house, but got no farther than
the doorstep; the maid invariably greeted him with the words: "Mr.
Sukkestad's compliments, sir, but he's not at home."
On the occasion of his last attempt before Andrea's departure, he had
just got out of the gate when he heard the drawing-room window open,
and Andrea's well-known voice singing:
"Thou are my one and only thought,
My one and only love...."
He stopped and looked up, but saw only the stern countenance of Papa
Sukkestad hastily closing the window, and the music ceased abruptly.
It was quite enough for Peter, however, and he walked home gaily,
confident now that all would go well.
Andrea went off without having spoken to Oiland, but the post was
busy between Strandvik and Kristiansfeldt, for letters passed daily
either way--while Mrs. Sukkestad went about complaining that Andrea
never wrote home.
XVI
EMILIE RANTZAU
Old Marthe Pettersen, who had been housekeeper to Old Nick for nearly
thirty years, had taken pneumonia and died a fortnight after
Christmas; she had at least chosen a convenient time, having made all
culinary preparations for the festival beforehand.
Old Nick was inconsolable, for Selma Rordam, whom he had got in as a
temporary help, was hopelessly incapable; either the cod would be
unsalted and insipid or she would serve it up in a liquor approaching
brine, not to speak of throwing away the best parts, and boiling the
roe to nothing. And last Sunday's joint of beef had been so tough
that he had seriously considered sending it in to the Society for
Preservation of Ancient Relics. His breakfast eggs were constantly
hard boiled, despite his ironic inquiries as to whether she thought
he wanted them for billiard balls. And as for sewing on buttons--for
the past fourteen days he had been reduced to boring holes in the
waist of his trousers and fastening them with bits of wood.
Everything was going wrong all round.
"Very inconvenient, yes," said Nachmann, called in to discuss the
situation. "But you'll see it'll come all right in time. Now you take
my advice and advertise in the papers for someone; she's sure to
come along: 'Wanted, an ideal woman, to restore domestic bliss.'" The
pair sat down accordingly to draft out an advertisement, each to
write one out of his own head.
Nachmann's, when completed, ran as follows:
"MATRIMONIAL.
"Bachelor, middle-aged, no children, would like to make
acquaintance of an educated lady of suitable age--widow not
objected to. Must be accustomed to domestic duties and of bright
and cheerful temperament. Private means not so essential as
amiability. Reply to 'Earnest,' office of this paper."
Old Nick tore up this effusion, and inserted his own, which said:
"HOUSEKEEPER.
"Lady, middle-aged, thoroughly capable cook and housekeeper,
wanted for elderly gentleman's house in seaport town.
Remuneration by arrangement; ability and pleasant companionship
most essential. Particulars to 'Cookery,' c/o this paper."
During the week that followed Old Nick was positively inundated with
applications. There were cook-maids, hot and cold, with years of
experience at first-class hotels; reliable women from outlying
country districts; widows from small townships up and down the coast;
while a "clergyman's daughter, aged twenty-three," who already
considered herself middle-aged, gave Old Nick some food for thought.
Among all these various documents, some large, and small, and bold,
others timidly small, was a little pink envelope addressed in a
delicate hand. The letter contained, ran as follows:
"DEAR SIR,--In reply to your advertisement in to-day's paper I
venture to offer my services as housekeeper. I am a widow without
encumbrance, age thirty-seven, with long experience of keeping
house, and able to undertake any reasonable work desired.
"I am of a bright and cheerful temper, with many interests,
musical, good reader, and would do my utmost to make your home
pleasant and comfortable in every way.
"Trusting to be favoured with a reply, when further particulars
can be forwarded.--I beg to remain, yours very truly,
"EMILIE RANTZAU."
Old Nick sat for a long while staring thoughtfully before him.
"Widow, thirty-seven, long experience of keeping house, bright and
cheerful temper.... I tell you what, Nachmann, this looks like what
we want."
"Heavens, man, but she's musical--what do you want with that sort of
thing in the house? No, no, my friend; the devil take that widow for
his housekeeper--not you. She'd play you out of house and home in no
time, my boy."
"Well, you know, really, I was getting a bit sick of old Marthe. Felt
the lack of refined womanly influence now and again. And I must say
this--what's her name--Emilie Rantzau rather appeals to me. There's
something, I don't know what to call it, about her letter. Sort of
ladylike, you know."
"Yes, and perfumed too, lovely, m-m-m. Patchouli!" said Nachmann,
holding the envelope to Nickelsen's nose.
After some further deliberation Old Nick wrote to Mrs. Emilie
Rantzau, and learned that she was the widow of a Danish artist, had
spent many years abroad, and wished now to find a position in some
small town where she could live a quiet, retired life, occupied
solely with her duties.
Her letters were so frank and sincere, that they made quite an
impression on Old Nick, and he decided to engage her. She was to come
on Saturday, and on the Friday before, Nickelsen did not go to his
office at all, but stayed at home, going about dusting the rooms with
an old handkerchief.
Thinking the place looked rather bare, he obtained a big palm and an
indiarubber plant to brighten things up a little.
He was queerly nervous and ill at ease every day, with a feeling as
if some misfortune were on the way. What would she be like, he
wondered? If the experiment turned out a failure, there would be an
end of his domestic peace. Perhaps after all he would have done
better to stick to the Marthe type....
They were seated at dinner, and her fine dark eyes played over his
face.
"No, you must let me make the salad. I promise you it shall be good."
And she took the bowl, her soft, delicate hand just touching his as
she did so.
Old Nick murmured something politely, and was conscious that he
flushed up to the roots of his white mane.
"Queer sort of woman this." It was on the tip of his tongue to say it
aloud, but he checked himself in time. The joint was served, and for
the first time in his life he forgot to pick out the marrow. Fancy
forgetting that! In old Marthe's time he invariably sent for toast,
and a spoon to get it out with; now he sat attentively listening to
Mrs. Rantzau's stories of the theatre in Copenhagen.
"Very nice claret this of yours, Mr. Nickelsen. I know '78 is
supposed to be the best--good body they say. Funny, isn't it, to talk
of wine having a body."
She looked across at him with a smile, showing two rows of fine white
teeth. Then, rising, she went over to the sideboard to show him that
she too knew how to carve a joint. Old Nick took advantage of the
opportunity to observe her more closely.
Dark, glistening hair, tied in what is called a Gordian knot at the
back, with a tiny curl or so lower down, and a beautiful white neck.
She was not tall, but her figure was well rounded, and the
close-fitting dark dress showed it off to perfection.
Old Nick was so intent in studying her that he had not time to look
away before she turned round and laughingly exclaimed:
"Well, are you afraid I shall spoil the joint?"
"No, indeed; I see you are an expert at carving."
In his confusion he upset the sauce tureen. But Mrs. Rantzau laughed
heartily, holding his arm as she declared she must evidently have
brought misfortune in her train.
Old Nick had been rather uneasy at the thought of what to say to her,
but she made conversation so easily herself that he had only to put
in an odd remark here and there: "Yes, of course, yes." "No, indeed."
"Exactly."
In the evening Thor Smith, Nachmann and Warden Prois came round for
their weekly game of cards. They were all remarkably punctual to-day:
the clock had not struck seven before all three were in the hall, and
all with unfeigned curiosity plainly on their faces.
"I'm dying to see how the old man gets on with this gay widow," said
Thor Smith, touching up his hair and tie before the glass--a nicety
he had never troubled about on previous visits to Old Nick.
Red paper shades had been put on the lamps, and the table was fully
laid with tea-urn, cups and saucers, cakes and little fringed
serviettes.
Old Nick, in a black frock-coat, advanced ceremoniously towards them;
he said very little, however, and seemed generally rather ill at
ease.
"Rather a change this," thought Warden Prois. He was more accustomed
to finding Old Nick on such occasions in dressing-gown and slippers,
with his old rocking-chair drawn up, and his feet on the table. Then,
when he heard his visitors arrive, he would send a gruff hail to the
kitchen: "Marthe, you old slow-coach, hurry up with that hot water,
or I'll...." But to-day he was as polished and precise as an old
marquis.
Prois glanced over towards Nachmann, and Thor Smith in despair picked
up an ancient album that he had seen at least a hundred times before;
the only pictures in it were portraits of the former parson, and of
Pepita, a dancer, who had adorned the stage some forty years earlier,
when Old Nick was young.
Then Mrs. Rantzau came in. She wore a black velvet dress, with a
little red silk handkerchief coquettishly stuck in the breast.
Old Nick introduced them. She was certainly handsome, as she greeted
each of the guests with a kindly word and a smile.
Tea was served, and she handed a cup to Smith and one to Prois.
Nachmann had retired to the farthest corner of the sofa, as if on his
guard.
She held out a cup towards him. "Mr. Nachmann, a cup of tea now?"
"Excuse me, I can drink most things made with water, including soda,
potash and Apollinaris, but tea--no. It affects my nerves. Mr. Prois,
now, is a confirmed tea-drinker; he'll have two cups at least, I'm
sure."
Prois gave a furious glance at Nachmann, and struggled desperately
with some sort of cake with currants in, and these he managed to spit
out on the sly, hiding them in his waistcoat pocket.
At last the toddy and the cards appeared. Mrs. Rantzau sat close at
hand, working at her embroidery, a large piece of canvas with a
design representing Diana in the act of throwing a big spear at a
retreating lion.
Nachmann, the only one who had retained his self-possession, was
master of the situation.
"Now, what's that supposed to be, may I ask?"
"Oh, you can see, Mr. Nachmann. I'm sure it's plain enough."
"Well, now, honestly, my dear lady, I should say that Diana there is
the very image of your charming self, and the terrified animal in the
corner looks remarkably like our host. I do hope you'll be careful
with that spear!"
Mrs. Rantzau was plainly offended, and gave him a sharp glance of
reproof from her dark eyes.
"Ah, now you're angry, I can see. But really it was quite innocently
meant."
Mrs. Rantzau rose and left the room hastily. There was an awkward
pause, until Thor Smith took up the cards and began to shuffle.
"Water isn't hot," muttered Old Nick, clasping both hands about the
jug.
"Only wait a little, old boy, and you'll find it hot enough, or I'm
much mistaken. Ah, well, such is life without a wife.... Here, I say,
where's your head to-night, Nickelsen. Bless my soul, if you haven't
given them the game!"
Old Nick complained of headache that evening, and the party broke up
earlier than usual. So early, indeed, that Thor Smith had scarcely
finished his first glass, or the first cataract, as he called it,
whereas ordinarily the third would be reached and passed in the
course of the evening's play.
The three friends walked home together, all very serious, and greatly
troubled in mind as to Old Nick's future.
Prois in particular took a most gloomy view. "It's a dangerous age
for that sort of thing; comes on suddenly, before you know where you
are." He was thinking of his own experiences in that direction; it
was only four years since he had been wild to marry that young
governess at the Abrahamsens', the disaster, however, being
fortunately averted by the intervention of Pedersen, the
telegraphist, who cut in and won her before he, Prois, had screwed
himself up to the question.
Old Nick hardly knew the place again when he came down to breakfast
next morning, to find Mrs. Rantzau presiding at table in a pink
morning-gown and dainty shoes. The walls were decorated with Chinese
paper fans in flowery designs, and Japanese parasols; the sofas had
been moved out at all angles about the room. A big palm waved above
his writing-table, and all the papers on it were neatly arranged in
two piles of equal size, one on either hand.
At sight of this his blood began to boil; his writing-table was
sacred; no human hand but his own had touched it for the past forty
years. Old Marthe herself, when dusting the room, had been as shy of
coming near it as if it had been a red-hot stove. Nevertheless, Old
Nick found himself unable to say a word; Mrs. Rantzau's smile and her
dark eyes threw him into utter confusion.
One day, happening to come in for some papers, he found her in the
act of taking the documents of a case pending--"Strandvik Postal
Authorities _v._ Holmestrand Town Council"--to clean the lamps with.
But here he was obliged to put his foot down and protest. If he could
not trust his papers to be left in safety on his table, why, he might
as well move out of the house.
Mrs. Rantzau looked at him with great imploring eyes, and was so
contrite; he must forgive her, she was so dreadfully stupid; she had
no idea that papers could be so important.
Old Nick could not help smiling, and peace was restored, on condition
that for the future only newspapers should be used for cleaning
purposes. This naturally led to Old Nick's finding the one particular
journal he wanted to read after dinner had been sacrificed.
She was undeniably handsome, however, especially in that pink
morning-gown as she sat at the breakfast-table, while Old Nick
revived his early memories and endeavoured to play the youthful
cavalier.