For several years the fortunes of Garman and Worse prospered. Jacob
Worse's money ran like a stream of fresh blood in the business,
spreading itself through the limbs and invigorating the whole body,
and the firm soon recovered its own renown, both at home and abroad.
The Consul's brow grew calm and unclouded, and his step was vigorous
and youthful, as he mounted the great staircase to superintend the
foreign workmen, who had come from Copenhagen to decorate the
reception-rooms upstairs.
Christian Frederik was expected home in the spring; his education
abroad was completed, and he had spent the last winter in Paris.
The Consul was delighted to have his son at home again, especially
now that he could show him how prosperous the firm was and how the
business flourished.
There was only one thing which troubled him, namely, Worse.
The Consul, in his heart, cursed the Haugians more than ever. It had
happened as he feared--they had spoiled Skipper Worse as far as he
was concerned.
His sisters-in-law, Birgitte and Mette, were of the same opinion. It
was true that, after his marriage, Worse often visited Sandsgaard,
and tried to show that he had not altered. But it was of no use; he
could no longer adapt himself to the tone which prevailed there, and
it was painfully apparent on both sides that the good old times had
departed for ever.
On one occasion only had Sarah been to Sandsgaard, when the Consul
gave a grand dinner in honour of the newly married pair. With
downcast eyes she sat by his side in the brilliant dining-room,
surrounded by grand ladies and gentlemen, whom she knew by sight in
the streets or at church.
Jests, laughter, and mirth, the like of which she had never before
encountered, reigned around, although the guests imagined that they
put some restraint upon themselves that day, in deference to the
well-known strictness of the young wife.
Jacob Worse, on the other hand, who was accustomed to it, and who was
at his ease with them all, was well pleased, and nodded to her. She,
however, scarcely raised her eyes during the whole of the dinner, and
when they reached home, she announced to Worse that she felt as if
they had visited the very purlieus of hell itself.
"Oh, Sarah! how can you say such things! they are all really good,
kind people."
"No;" she said, sharply. "I suppose you know what a butt they made of
you?" This was the impression made upon her when the judge, or some
one else, had begged the honour of drinking a glass of wine with the
old captain and the young bridegroom.
She never went there again; from the first she was acute enough to
perceive that she could never get a footing in such society.
Moreover, these gay, light-hearted people, who laughed loudly and
drank the perilous wine, seemed almost fiendish to one who, from her
childhood, had been accustomed only to grave and serious
conversation.
Consul Garman constantly upbraided his sisters-in-law for not having
given him earlier information of Worse's relations with the Haugians,
for he fancied he could have cured him had he taken him in hand
before the evil had gained the mastery.
In the mean time, Worse appeared to be content, which was very well
so long as it lasted.
His loss was felt at Sandsgaard; and when he abandoned the sea and
relinquished the _Hope_ to others, the Consul gave him up as lost and
useless.
The Consul was now more lonely than ever; absorbed in melancholy, he
often paced up and down in the broad gravel paths by the pavilion in
the garden.
It stood by a pond, round which grew a dense border of rushes.
Formerly this pond must have been larger, for the Consul remembered
that in his childhood there had been water on both sides of the
building, and a bridge which could be drawn up. He had a dim
recollection of ladies in a blue and white boat, and a tall man in a
red silken jacket, who stood in the bow with an oar. Now, however,
the pond was so small that a boat would have looked ridiculous. The
Consul often wondered how it could have so diminished in size. It
must, he thought, be the rushes which encroached upon it; and
although he continually told the gardener to keep his eye upon them,
it was of no use.
The garden had been originally laid out in the French fashion, with
broad rectangular paths, high thick hedges, alleys, and borders of
box.
There was a circular open space, where four paths met; seats were
placed around it, and in the centre stood a sun-dial.
In the outer part of the garden, especially towards the north-west, a
thick border of trees encircled it, as with a frame. They were common
native trees, placed there to protect the fine French garden and the
exotic plants and flowers from the cold sea wind.
The pavilion by the pond lay to the west of the mansion, and although
only a few paces distant; it was looked upon in old times as a sort
of Trianon. Here they assembled to drink coffee, or to listen to
music. The Company, filing along by the most ingenious roundabout
paths over the bridge and about the pond, embarked in the boat, and
were ferried across with three strokes of the oar, amidst innumerable
compliments and witticisms.
Morten Garman remembered all this from his youth. He himself had
endeavoured, but with only partial success, to keep up the old
customs and manners.
People were changed, the pond was filling up, and even his father's
stately garden seemed likely to become a wilderness.
On both sides of the gravel path leading to the pavilion there was a
hedge, so thickly grown that, to the great disgust of the gardener,
young ladies used to seat themselves on its top. At regular intervals
the box bushes were clipped into pyramidal shapes, and it was here
that the Consul delighted to pace up and down. Here, too, remained
all that was left of the ancient grandeur.
The garden beyond was beginning to be somewhat irregular. The trees
that had been planted to give shelter, now that their trunks were
thick and their roots strong, spread on their own account; and as
they could not face the north-west wind, their boughs stretched
inwards upon the garden, over the rectangular paths and the winding
dolls' hedges of clipped box.
It was not the gardener's fault that the plantation had so spread
that it was now more of a park than a garden, and it would have been
impossible to restore the former French model, except by cutting down
the trees and planting anew.
When the Consul walked here in the calm summer evenings, he could,
through the towering trees, catch a glimpse of the bright afterglow,
which shed its light upon Sandsgaard Bay and westward over the sea,
whose glassy surface heaved in long undulations.
He remembered the glorious view of the sea that in his youth could be
obtained from the roof of the pavilion; it was, however, no longer
visible, for it was with the garden as with the town, both growing
and overgrowing, so that neither the one nor the other resembled its
former self.
At the back of the pavilion there was a secret door in the panelling,
the key of which the Consul always carried in his pocket. Many a
light recollection of the gallantries of his youth rose up before
him, when at rare intervals he now opened this small back door, from
which a narrow spiral stair led to a chamber above, so narrow that it
was now difficult for him to ascend it; but in his younger days--good
Heavens!--how lightly he flew up and down it!
"_Le nez, c'est la memoire_," he said, as he inhaled the odour of old
mahogany, and paced up and down in the small remnant of the garden of
his youth, stepping daintily with his well-shaped legs and dreaming
of the period of low shoes and silk stockings.
In the road outside stood a wayfarer, gazing upon the fjord. It was
the well-known lay-preacher, Hans Nilsen Fennefos. Tall, gaunt, with
bright searching eyes, he stood absorbed in thought, and leant
against the post of the gate leading from the garden.
On his back he bore a large wallet, in which he carried his books and
tracts. He was dusty and weary, with a long day's tramp in the sun.
For three years he had not visited these parts, and much had happened
in the mean time. When, at a distance, he had learnt that Sarah had
married Skipper Worse, he felt as if he had received a stab, and he
suffered bodily pain, which almost overcame him. He immediately
realized that this woman had enthralled his affections, and that his
love to the Brethren, nay, to the Almighty Himself, was as nothing in
comparison.
He was terrified, and cast himself on the ground in an agony of
remorse and prayer. It seemed to him as if no punishment or penance
could atone for such deception and for so great a crime.
Bitter feelings towards others also took possession of him, and with
fiery zeal he began to preach repentance, rebuking sinners in
language far more severe than was customary.
For three years he had maintained this vehement crusade against sin,
both in himself and in others, and during this period he succeeded in
shaking off the sinful affection. It now became evident to him that
both he and the Brethren had hitherto manifested insufficient
austerity in life and doctrine.
He had, therefore, responded to the call, and had journeyed
southwards. His feelings when he read Sarah's letter were those of
pity for her, and for all the Brethren in that part, who were
wandering blindly in their sins and self-righteousness. But on his
way south, travelling through friendly districts, among people who
had known him of old and who received him with kindness, it could not
but happen that his asperity should be mitigated; and as he passed
through Sandsgaard, he stopped, overcome by memories which the sight
of the familiar bay and of the church towers of the neighbouring town
had revived.
Hans Nilsen searched his heart anew, but found nothing which should
not be there. Sarah was as a sister or a brother to him; she was
another man's wife, and he hoped that she might be happy.
Before he went on he happened to look over the hedge, and, amidst the
trees, he discovered Consul Garman, pacing up and down.
Fennefos recognized him, and his feelings were roused again by the
sight of the old man, so unconcerned in his sins, surrounded by
riches, and absorbed in worldly contemplation, whilst he was drawing
near the depths of hell with open eyes.
He seized his staff and went on. They should soon feel in the town
that Hans Nilsen Fennefos had come back.
In the mean time, the last gleam of the twilight faded away, and the
sky paled along the horizon, the spreading boughs of the beech trees
swayed to and fro in the cold wind, and Consul Garman re-entered his
house.
The garden lay in repose, the tree tops waved overhead, and, in the
struggle for life, either forced themselves upwards or perished,
stunted by the shade and drip of their companions.
Above and below branches stretched out, ever encroaching on the
narrow space around the pavilion, where the pond was growing smaller
year by year.