senses; they had better pick up their comrade and help him on board
then and there. “I’m in your debt,” he said to Rolandsen.
But Rolandsen, watching the three desperadoes as they moved off down
the road, was far from satisfied yet. He shouted after them as long
as they could hear, “Come again to-morrow! Smash a window down at the
station and I’ll know. Huh! Children!”
As usual he did not know when to stop, but went on with his boastful
talk. But the crowd was moving away. Suddenly a lady comes up, looks
at him with glistening eyes, and offers her hand. _Præstefruen_ and no
other. She too has seen the fight.
“Oh, it was splendid!” she says. “I’m sure he won’t forget it in a
hurry.”
She noticed that his shirt was open. The sun had browned a ring about
his neck, but he was naked and white below.
He pulls his shirt together and bows. It was by no means unwelcome to
be accosted thus by the chaplain’s lady in sight of all; the victor of
that battle feels himself elated, he can afford to speak kindly for a
moment to this slip of a child that she is. Poor lady, her shoes were
none too impressive, and it was but little homage or deference any paid
to her there!
“’Tis misusing such eyes to trouble them looking at me,” said he.
Whereat she blushed.
He asked her again, “Don’t you miss things, living away from town?”
“Oh no,” she answered. “It’s nice living here too. But look here,
wouldn’t you care to walk up and spend the day with us now?”
Rolandsen thanked her, and was sorry he could not. Sunday or Monday, it
was all one to the telegraph station. “But I thank you all the same,”
he said. “There’s one thing I envy the priest, and that is you.”
“What do you...?”
“Politely, but firmly, I envy him his wife.”
There--he had done it now. Surely it would be hard to find the like of
Ove Rolandsen for shedding little joys abroad.
“What ridiculous things you do say,” said Fruen, when she had recovered
herself a little.
But Rolandsen, walking back homeward, reflected that, taking it all
round, he had had a nice day. In his intoxication and triumph he dwelt
on the fact that this young wife, the priest’s wife, was so inclined
to stop and talk with him at times. He formed his own ideas about it,
and grew cunning, ay, he began already to plot and plan. Why should not
Fruen herself get rid of Jomfru van Loos for him, and file through his
fetters? He could not ask it of her directly, no--but there were other
ways. Who could say? Perhaps she would do him that service, since they
were such good friends.
[Illustration]
VIII
The priest and his lady are awakened in the night; wakened by song. No
such thing had ever happened to them before, but here it was; somebody
singing outside the house down below. The sun looks out over the world;
the gulls are awake; it is three in the morning.
“Surely there’s someone singing,” says the priest to his wife in the
adjoining room.
“Yes, it’s here, outside my window,” says she.
Fruen listened. She knew the voice--wild Rolandsen’s voice it was, and
his guitar. Oh, but it was too bad of him really, to come singing of
his “true love” right underneath her window. She felt hot all over.
Her husband came in to look. “It’s that man Rolandsen,” he said, and
frowned. “He’s had a keg of brandy sent just lately. Disgraceful!”
But Fruen was not inclined to frown upon this little diversion; he was
quite a nice young fellow really, this Rolandsen, who could fight like
any rough, and sing like a youth inspired. He brought a touch of mild
excitement into the quiet, everyday life of the place.
“It’s meant to be a serenade, I suppose,” she said, with a laugh.
“He’s no business to be serenading you,” said her husband. “I don’t
know what you think of it yourself?”
Oh, but of course he must be nasty about it! “There’s no harm in it,
surely,” said his wife. “It’s only his fun.” But at the same time she
resolved never again to make beautiful eyes at Rolandsen and lead him
on to escapades of this sort.
“He’s beginning again, as sure as I’m here,” cried the priest. And he
stepped forward to the window then and there, and rapped on the pane.
Rolandsen looked up. It was the priest himself standing there in
the flesh. The song died away. Rolandsen collapsed, stood a moment
hesitating, and walked away.
“Ah!” said the priest. “I soon got rid of him.” He was by no means
displeased to have accomplished so much by merely showing himself. “And
he shall have a letter from me to-morrow,” he went on. “I’ve had my eye
on him for some time past, for his scandalous goings-on.”
“Don’t you think if I spoke to him myself,” said his wife, “and told
him not to come up here singing songs in the middle of the night?”
But the priest went on without heeding. “Write him a letter, yes....
And then I’ll go and talk to him after.” As if his going and talking to
Rolandsen after meant something very serious indeed.
He went back to his own room, and lay thinking it all over. No, he
would endure it no longer; the fellow’s conceit, and his extravagant
ways, were becoming a nuisance to the place. The priest was no
respecter of persons; he wrote his epistles to one as to another, and
made himself feared. If the congregation stumbled in their darkness,
it was his business to bring light. He had not forgotten that business
with Levion’s sister. She had not mended her ways, and the priest
had been unable to retain her brother as lay-helper. Ill-fortune had
come upon Levion; his wife had died. But the priest lost no time; he
spoke to Levion at the funeral. It was an abominable business. Levion,
simple soul, setting out to bury his helpmeet, recollected that he had
promised to bring up a newly slaughtered calf to Frederik Mack at the
factory. It was all on the way, and with the hot weather it would not
do to leave the meat over-long. What more natural than that he should
take the carcase with him? The priest learned the story from Enok, the
humble person with the permanent earache. And he sent for Levion at
once.
“I cannot retain you as lay-helper,” he said. “Your sister is living a
sinful life within your gates; your house is a house of ill-fame; you
lie there fast asleep at night and let men come in.”
“Ay, more’s the pity,” says Levion. “I’ll not deny it’s been that way
more than once.”
“And there’s another thing. You follow your wife to the grave, and drag
a dead calf along after her. Now I ask you, is that right or decent?”
But Levion, fisherman-peasant, found such niceties beyond him; he
stared uncomprehendingly at the priest. His wife had always been a
thrifty soul; she would have been the first to remind him herself to
take the calf along if she could have spoken. “Seeing it’s up that
way,” she would have said.
“If as Pastor’s going to be so niggling particular,” said Levion,
“you’ll never get a decent helper anywhere.”
“That’s my business,” said the priest. “Anyhow, you are dismissed.”
Levion looked down at his sou’wester. It was a blow to him and a
disgrace; his neighbours would rejoice at his fall.
But the priest had not finished yet. “For Heaven’s sake,” he said,
“can’t you get that sister of yours married to the man?”
“Do you think I haven’t tried?” said Levion. “But the worst of it is,
she’s not quite sure which one it is.”
The priest looked at him open-mouthed. “Not quite _what_ did you say?”
And then at last, realising what it meant, he clasped his hands. “Well,
well!... I must find another helper, that is all.”
“Who’ll it be?”
“That’s no concern of yours. As a matter of fact, I am taking Enok.”
Levion stood thoughtful for quite a while. He knew this Enok, and had
an old account to settle with him. “Enok, is it?” he said, and went out.
Enok was certainly a good man for the post. He was one of your
deep-thinking sort, and did not carry his head in the air, but bowed
on his breast; an earnest man. It was whispered that he was no good
man to share with in a boat; there was some story of his having been
caught, many years back, pulling up other folk’s lines. But this, no
doubt, was pure envy and malice. There was nothing lordly or baronial
about him in the way of looks; that everlasting kerchief round his ears
did not improve him. Moreover, he had a way of blowing through his
nostrils; on meeting anyone, he would lay a finger first on one side
and blow, then on the other side, and blow again. But the Lord took no
account of outward things, and Enok, His humble servant, had doubtless
no other thought with this beyond smartening himself up a little on
meeting with his fellows. When he came up he would say, “_Freden!_”
and when he went away, “_Bliv i Freden_.”[6] Sound and thoughtful,
an earnest man. Even his _tollekniv_, the big knife at his belt, he
seemed to wear with thankfulness, as who should say, “Alas, there’s
many that haven’t so much as a knife to cut with in the world.” Only
last Offering, Enok had created a sensation by the amount of his gift;
he had laid a note on the altar. Had he been doing so well of late in
ready cash? Doubtless some higher power must have added its mite to his
savings. He owed nothing in Mack’s books at the store; his fish-loft
was untouched, his family were decently clad. And Enok ruled his house
with strictness and propriety. He had a son, a very model of quiet
and decorous behaviour. The lad had been out with the fishing fleet
from Lofoten, and earned the right to come home with a blue anchor on
his hand, but this he did not. His father had instructed him early in
humility and the fear of God. It was a blessed thing, in Enok’s mind,
to walk humbly and meekly....
[6] “Peace” and “Be in Peace.” These are more rustic forms of greeting
than the “_Goddag_” and “_Farvel_” generally used.
The priest lay thinking over these things, and the morning wore on.
That miserable Rolandsen had spoiled his night’s rest; he got up at
six, which was all too early. But then it appeared that his wife had
already dressed and gone out without a sound.
During the forenoon Fruen walked in to Rolandsen and said, “You must
not come up like that and sing songs outside at night.”
“I know; it was wrong of me,” he said. “I thought Jomfru van Loos
would be there, but she had moved.”
“Oh!... So it was for her you sang?”
“Yes. A poor little bit of a song to greet the day.”
“That was my room,” said she.
“It used to be Jomfruen’s room in the old priest’s time.”
Fruen said no more; her eyes had turned dull and stupid.
“Well, thanks,” she said, as she went. “It was very nice, I’m sure, but
don’t do it again.”
“I won’t, I promise.... If I’d known ... of course, I wouldn’t have
dared....” Rolandsen looked utterly crushed.
When Fruen came home she said, “Really I’m so sleepy to-day.”
“No wonder,” said her husband. “You got no sleep last night, with that
fellow shouting down there.”
“I think Jomfru van Loos had better go,” said she.
“Jomfru van Loos?”
“He’s engaged to her, you know. And we shall have no peace at night.”
“I’ll send him a letter to-day!”
“Wouldn’t it be simpler just to send her away?”
The priest thought to himself that this was by no means the simplest
way, seeing it would mean further expense for a new housekeeper.
Moreover, Jomfru van Loos was very useful; without her, there would be
no sort of order anywhere. He remembered how things had been managed at
first, when his wife looked after the house herself--he was not likely
to forget it.
“Whom will you get in her place?” he asked.
“I would rather do her work myself,” she answered.
At that he laughed bitterly, and said, “A nice mess you will make of
it.”
But his wife was hurt and offended at this. “I can’t see,” she said,
“but that I must look after the house in any case. So the work a
housekeeper did would not make much difference.”
The priest was silent. It was no use discussing it further, no earthly
use--no. “We can’t send her away,” he said. But there was his wife
with her shoes all sorely cracked and worn, pitiful to see. And he said
as he went out, “We must manage to get you a new pair of shoes, and
that soon.”
“Oh, it’s summer now,” she answered.
[Illustration]
IX
The last of the fishing-boats are ready to sail; the season is over.
But the sea was still rich; herring were sighted along the coast, and
prices fell. Trader Mack had bought up what fish he could get, and none
had heard of any stoppage in his payments; only the last boat he had
asked to wait while he telegraphed south for money. But at that folk
had begun whispering at once. Mack was in difficulties.... Aha!
But Trader Mack was as all-powerful as ever. In the thick of all his
other business he had promised the Vicarage people a bakery. Good! The
bakery was getting on, the workmen had arrived, and the foundation was
already laid. Fruen found it a real pleasure to go and watch her bakery
growing up. But now the building-work was to commence, and this was a
matter for other workmen; they had been telegraphed for too, said Mack.
Meantime, however, the baker at the _Lensmandsgaard_ had pulled himself
together. What a letter from the priest had failed to accomplish, was
effected by Mack with his foundation. “If it’s bread they want, why,
they shall have it,” said the baker. But everyone understood that the
poor man was only writhing helplessly; he would be crushed now, crushed
by Mack.
Rolandsen sits in his room drawing up a curious announcement, with his
signature. He reads it over again and again, and approves it. Then he
puts it in his pocket, takes his hat, and goes out. He took the road
down to Mack’s office at the factory.
Rolandsen had been expecting Jomfru van Loos to go away, but she had
not gone; her mistress had not dismissed her at all. Rolandsen had been
out in his reckoning when he hoped that Fruen would do him favours. He
came to his reasonable senses again, and thought to himself, Let’s keep
to earth now; we haven’t made such an impression after all, it seems.
On the other hand, he had received a letter of serious and chastening
content from the priest himself. Rolandsen did not attempt to hide the
fact that this thing had happened to him; he told the matter to all,
to high and low. It was no more than he deserved, he said, and it had
done him good; no priest had ever troubled about him before since his
confirmation. Rolandsen would even venture to say that the priest ought
to send many such letters out among his flock, to the better comfort
and guidance of all.
But no one could see from Rolandsen’s manner that he had been any
way rejoiced or comforted of late; on the contrary, he appeared more
thoughtful than ever, and seemed to be occupied with some particular
thought. Shall I, or shall I not? he might be heard to murmur. And now,
this morning, when his former betrothed, Jomfru van Loos, had lain in
wait for him and plagued the life out of him again with that ridiculous
business of the serenade, he had left her with the significant words,
“I’ll do it!”
Rolandsen walks into Mack’s office and gives greeting. He is perfectly
sober. The Macks, father and son, are standing, each at one side of the
desk, writing. Old Mack offers him a chair, but Rolandsen does not sit.
He says:
“I only came in to say it was me that broke in and took the money.”
Father and son stare at him.
“I’ve come to give myself up,” says Rolandsen. “It would not be right
to hide it any longer; ’tis bad enough as it is.”
“Leave us alone a minute,” says Old Mack.
Frederik walks out.
Says Mack, “Are you in your right senses to-day?”
“I did it, I tell you,” shouts Rolandsen. And Rolandsen’s voice was a
voice for song and strong words.
Then there was a pause. Mack blinked his eyes, and looked thoughtful.
“You did it, you say?”
“Yes.”
Mack thought again. That good brain of his had solved many a problem in
its day; he was well used to settling a matter quickly.
“And will you hold by your words to-morrow as well?”
“Yes. From henceforth I will not conceal it. I have had a letter from
the priest, and it’s that has changed me.”
Was Mack beginning to believe him? Or was it merely as a matter of form
that he went on?
“When did you do it?” he asked.
Rolandsen mentioned the night.
“And how did you go about it?”
Rolandsen described it all in detail.
“There were some papers in the chest with the money--did you notice
them?”
“Yes. There were some papers.”
“One of them is missing; what have you done with it?”
“I haven’t got it. A paper? No.”
“My life insurance policy, it was.”
“An insurance policy! Yes, now I remember. I must confess I burnt it.”
“Did you? Then you ought not to have done so. It’s cost me a lot of
trouble to get another.”
Said Rolandsen, “I was all in a flurry, and didn’t think. I beg you to
forgive me.”
“There was another chest with several thousand _Daler_ in it; why
didn’t you take that?”
“I didn’t find that one.”
Mack had finished his calculations. Whether Rolandsen had committed
the burglary or not, he would in any case make the finest culprit Mack
could have wished. He would certainly make no secret of the affair,
but rather declare it to every soul he met; the last boat’s crew would
carry the news with them home, and so it would come to the ears of the
traders along the coast. Mack felt he was saved.
“I have never heard of your going about and ... your having this
weakness before,” he said.
Whereto Rolandsen answered, No, not among the fishermen, no. When he
wanted to steal, he didn’t go bird-nesting in that petty fashion; he
went to the bank itself.
That was one for Mack! He only answered now with a reproachful air,
“But that you could steal from _me_....”
Rolandsen said, “I worked myself up to it, to be bold enough. I was
drunk at the time, I am sorry to say.”
After this it seemed no longer impossible that the confession was true.
Rolandsen was known to be a wild fellow who led an extravagant life and
had no great income to draw upon. That keg of brandy from Rosengaard
must have cost him something.
“And I’ve more to confess, I’m sorry to say,” went on Rolandsen. “I
haven’t the money now, to pay it back.”
Mack looked highly indifferent. “That doesn’t matter in the least,” he
said. “The thing that troubles me is all the stupid gossip it’s led to.
All those unpleasant insinuations against me and my family.”
“I’ve thought of that. And I was going to do something....”
“What do you mean?”
“Take down your placard from the Vicarage gate and put up one of my
own in its place.”
This was Rolandsen all over. “No,” said Mack. “I won’t ask you to do
that. It will be hard enough for you as it is, my good man. But you
might write a declaration here.” And Mack nodded towards Frederik’s
seat.
Rolandsen set to work. Mack was thinking deeply the while. Here was
all this serious business turning out for the best. It would cost him
something, but the money would be well spent; his renown would now be
spread far and wide.
Mack read over the declaration, and said, “Yes, that’s good enough. I
don’t intend to make use of it, of course....”
“That’s as you please,” said Rolandsen.
“And I do not propose to say anything about our interview to-day. It
can remain between ourselves.”
“Then I shall have to tell people myself,” said Rolandsen. “The
priest’s letter said particularly that we should confess.”
Mack opened his fire-proof safe and took out a bundle of notes. Here
was his chance to show what sort of man he was. And who could know
that a master seiner from a stranger boat was down in the bay waiting
for those very notes before he could sail?
Mack counted out four hundred _Daler_, and said, “I don’t mean to
insult you, but it’s my way to keep to my word. I have promised a
reward of four hundred _Daler_, which is now due to you.”
Rolandsen walked towards the door. “I deserve your contempt,” said he.
“Contempt!” said Mack. “Let me tell you....”
“Your generosity cuts me to the heart. Instead of putting me in prison,
you reward me....”
But it was a mere trifle for Mack to lose a couple of hundred _Daler_
over a burglary. It was only when he rewarded the thief himself with
twice that amount that the thing became really magnificent. He said,
“Look here, Rolandsen, you will find yourself in difficulties now; you
will lose your place to begin with. The money will be no inconvenience
to me, but it may be of real importance to you just now. I beg you to
think over what I say.”
“I couldn’t do it,” said Rolandsen.
Mack took the notes and thrust them into Rolandsen’s pocket.
“Let it be a loan, then,” said Rolandsen humbly.
And this chivalrous merchant-prince agreed, and answered, “Very well,
then, as a loan.” But he knew in his heart that he would never see the
money again.
Rolandsen stood there looking as if weighed down by the heaviest burden
in life. It was a pitiful sight.
“And now make haste and right yourself again,” said Mack encouragingly.
“You’ve made a bad slip, but it’s never too late, you know.”
Rolandsen thanked him with the greatest humility, and went out.
“I am a thief,” he said to the factory girls as he went out, making a
beginning with them without delay. And he gave them his full confession.
Then he went up to the Vicarage gate, and tore down Mack’s notice,
setting up his own instead. There it was in black and white, setting
forth that he, Rolandsen, and no other, was the culprit. And to-morrow
would be Sunday; many church-goers would pass by the spot.
[Illustration]
X
Rolandsen seemed to be picking up again to a marked degree. After all
the village had read his declaration, he kept to himself, and avoided
people. This made a good impression; evidently the scapegrace had
taken thought, and turned aside from his evil ways. But the fact was
that Rolandsen had no time for sauntering idly about the roads now; he
was restlessly at work in his room at nights. There were numbers of
bottles, large and small, containing samples, that he had to pack up
and send away by post east and west. Also, he was at the instrument
early and late; it was essential to make the best of his time before he
was dismissed.
His scandalous story had also reached the Vicarage, and everyone looked
with commiseration upon Jomfru van Loos, whose former lover had turned
out so badly. The priest himself called her into his study and talked
to her gently for a long time.
Jomfru van Loos was certainly not now disposed to hold Rolandsen to his
word; she would go and see him once more, and make an end of it.
She found him looking abject and miserable, but this did not soften
her. “Nice things you’ve been doing,” said she.
“I hoped you would come, so I could ask pardon,” he answered.
“Pardon! Well, I never did! Look you here, Ove! I simply don’t know
what to make of you. And I’ll have no more to do with you on this
earth, so there. I’m not known to folk as a thief nor a rascal, but go
my own honest way. And haven’t I warned you faithfully from my heart,
and you’ve only gone on as bad as ever? A man already promised and
betrothed, going about as a costly jewel to other womenfolk? And then
to go stealing people’s money and have to stick up a confession on a
gatepost in broad daylight. I’m that shamed I don’t know what to do
with myself. Don’t say a word; I know all about you. You’ve nothing
to say at all but only harden your heart and shout, Hurray, my boys!
And it’s all been true affection on my part, but you’ve been as a very
leper towards me, and soiled my life with a disgraceful burglary. You
needn’t try to say a word, and only make it worse. Praise be the Lord,
there’s not a soul but says the same--how you’ve shamefully deceived
me. And the priest himself says I’d better give you up and go away at
once, though he’d be sorry to lose me. And it’s no good you standing
there trying to hide, Ove, seeing you’re a sinner in the sight of God
and man, and only worthy to be cast aside. And if I do call you Ove,
after all that’s passed, I don’t mean it a bit, and you needn’t think
I’m going to make it up with you, because I’m not, for I won’t have
anything to do with you here or hereafter, and never be a friend of
yours in all the world. For there’s nobody could have done more for you
than I’ve done this long time back, but you’ve only been overflowing
with recklessness and never a thought of me, and taking advantage of me
early and late. Though I’m sure it’s partly my own fault, and more’s
the pity, by reason of being too lenient and overlooking this and that
all the time.”
There stood Rolandsen, a wretched creature, with never a word to
say for himself. He had never heard Marie van Loos so incoherent as
to-day; it showed how his dire misdeed had shaken her. When she stopped
speaking, she seemed thoroughly exhausted.
“I’ll turn over a new leaf,” he said.