_AT HOME_
In December I was once more at home, where I found everything outwardly
the same as of old, only, possibly by reason of what had passed, still
quieter and sadder. My father was restlessly active, but not very
communicative. He probably did not consider me fitted to share his
anxieties.
Susanna, who, like myself, was now over nineteen years of age, was on a
visit at a house some miles away and was to come home at Christmas. My
longing for her was indescribable.
It was during the last dark, stormy week before Christmas, that the
Spanish brig _Sancta Maria_ was driven by the weather in to our station,
in a rather damaged condition, which, with the poor labour we could
command, resulted in her having to lie under repair for nearly six
weeks.
The captain, who owned both ship and cargo, was a tall, sallow,
becomingly-dressed Spaniard, with iron-grey hair, black eyes, and large
features. With him was his son, Antonio Martinez, a handsome young man
with an olive-brown face and fiery eyes like his father's.
My father, who had done Señor Martinez considerable service in the
getting in the cargo, now invited him, with Nordland hospitality, to put
up at our house.
Although the intercourse between us could not be very lively, as the
foreigners only understood a few Norwegian words and were often obliged
to have recourse to a phrase-book, it was soon evident that they were
both very agreeable men. Their principal occupation consisted in making
and smoking cigarettes the whole day, and in superintending the work on
the brig.
The dark season has a depressing effect upon the spirits of many in the
North, especially on those days when there is very little to do. Thus,
during Christmas, and especially on Christmas Eve, my father used to be
excessively melancholy. While gaiety filled the whole house, and the
smartly-dressed servants kept Christmas round the kitchen table, which
was adorned with treble-branched candlesticks, he generally sat shut up
in the office with his own thoughts, and would not be disturbed by any
one.
This Christmas Eve, however, he was in the parlour for a while, on Señor
Martinez's account; but he was silent and dejected the whole time, as if
he were only longing for his solitary office, to which, moreover, he
retired directly after supper.