Dry fish and wet

"I remember how furious I was when the dresser came in to make me up, and I flung her paints and powders across the room. Sonnenthal came round and wanted me to go on in short skirts, but I told him in so many words that I was going to do it my own way or not at all; and, knowing how he was situated, of course he had to give in.

"I think he was impressed by the way I stood up to him. A little Roumanian girl, a pale, dark-eyed creature, who was simply terrified of Sonnenthal, like all the rest of them, came in to me afterwards and threw her arms round my neck and thanked me for having given him a lesson at last.

"It was with very mixed feelings that I went on that night for my first performance. The audience, of course, was composed of all sorts, and the performers were often interrupted by shouting, not always of applause.

"The house was full—it was packed. Sonnenthal knew how to advertise a thing.

"I gave them 'A Mountain Maid' to start with, a touching little thing, and I put enough feeling into it to move a stone, but not a hand was raised to applaud. Then I tried 'Solveig's Song' from Peer Gynt—that too was received with chilling silence.

"When I came off after the first two, I could see the others smiling maliciously: there's plenty of jealousy in that line of business. But it set my blood boiling, and I felt that irresistible impulse to go in and do something desperate, as I always do when anything gets in my way.

"I rushed on again, and gave the word to the orchestra for 'The Hungarian Gipsy,' a thing all trills and yodelling and such-like trick work—a show piece.

"I put all I knew into it this time, and yodelled away till the audience left their beer-glasses untouched on the tables—and that's saying a good deal with a crowd like that.

"When I finished, the hall rang with a thunder of applause—everyone shouting and cheering. I had to come before the curtain again and again. But I wouldn't give them an encore that time. I thought it best to have something in reserve, and not make myself cheap like the others.

"As I came off the last time, I couldn't help saying half aloud what I thought of my respected audience—clowns!

"But I'd found out how to handle them now, and I gave them the stuff they wanted, and plenty of it. I knew the sort of thing well enough. For years they'd sat listening to the same type of short-skirted, rouged and powdered womenfolk, with the same more or less risky songs, the same antiquated kick-ups and the same cheap favour in their eyes. I took care myself always to appear as a lady, chose first-rate songs, and, as my salary increased—for I drew Sonnenthal gradually up the scale as I wished—I was able to dress in a style that astonished them.

"Do you remember when I sang 'The Carnival of Venice'?"

"Do I not! Saints alive, but you were a wonder to see. Every evening, all the month I was there, I came just to sit and look at you."

"Listen, you mean?"

"Well, perhaps that's what I ought to say. Anyhow, I know I strewed flowers enough at your feet that winter, though they cost me a mark apiece."

"Yes, you were kind, I know. But do you remember the dress I wore for that carnival thing? The bodice all white roses, and red and yellow for the skirt—it was a success—a sensation! 'Flowers in spring' ah!"

She rose to her feet, and took a step forward, singing as she moved.

"When I came to that part, they all wanted to join in, but I had only to hold out my hand, so, and all was quiet in a moment, you remember?"

"Yes, indeed, you had a wonderful power over the sterner sex; I felt it myself, I know. I swear I've never been more completely head over ears before or since."

"Oh, nonsense, Mr. Holm," she protested, with a hearty laugh, "we're past that sort of thing now, both of us. But you were good to me then, and I shall never forget it. I had enough and to spare in the way of offers and attentions, not to speak of making people furious because I always refused their invitation to champagne suppers behind the scenes."

"That was just what gave you the position and influence you had, I think."

"Yes, I think it was. I know that all the time I was there, yours was the only invitation I ever accepted, because you were a fellow-countryman, and so kind and considerate as well.

"I remember as if it were yesterday that dinner at the 'Pforte.' There was a pheasant, with big tail-feathers large as life, do you remember? And when we got to the coffee, you wanted to hear the story of my life——"

"And you were silent as an Egyptian mummy."

"My parents were still living then, Mr. Holm, and I wished at least to spare them the sorrow of learning that their daughter was performing on the music-hall stage. Well, but I must go on.

"Fortunately, you were the only fellow-countryman I ever came in contact with while I was there; and, of course, I kept my nationality a secret as far as possible.

"When the summer came, I was so sick and tired of the life and the half-civilised surroundings, that I threw it up, and went to Copenhagen. I had saved enough by that time to keep me more or less comfortable for a while at least. But there was one little adventure I must tell about, before I left."

"This is getting quite exciting," said Holm, changing his seat and placing himself directly opposite her. "Go on. I'm curious to know."

"Well, I was as near as could be to becoming a Countess."

"Were you, though! How did it happen?"

"It's not altogether exceptional, you know, in the profession. But my little affair there is soon told. One of my most devoted admirers was a tall middle-aged man, well built, handsome, with dark hair and a big moustache. He looked like a military man. He was always most elegantly dressed, in a black frock-coat, with the red ribbon of some Order in his buttonhole.

"One evening, when I'd just finished dressing for the 'Carnival of Venice' thing, a card was brought in, bearing the name of Count—well, never mind his name. It was the Count that did it, I'm afraid.

"I invariably used to return cards brought in that way, and take no notice. But this time I suppose my vanity got the better of me for once, and I let him come in.

"He made me a most respectful bow, and handed me a magnificent bouquet tied with ribbon in the Italian colours. I was supposed to be from Milan, you know. He spoke excellent French, and seemed altogether a gentleman of the first water—or blood, I suppose one would say.

"He told me about his home, his estates and his family affairs in the most simple and natural manner. I could not help liking him a little from the first. He was in Hamburg on business—some lawsuit or other—and dropping into the place one evening to pass the time, he could not help noticing me particularly.

"He was not sparing of his compliments, I must say; he praised me up to the skies, as an artist, of course. My voice had astonished, delighted, enchanted him, he told me so at once. And ended up by advising me to try the opera stage—offered to help me himself in every way possible, which, he said, might mean something, as he had many influential friends in that quarter. I told him, however, quite frankly, that I was perfectly aware myself as to the qualifications needed for operatic work, and had sense enough to realise that I could never succeed in that way. He was evidently surprised at my attitude, but I simply thanked him for his kindness, and got rid of him then for the time being. But he came again regularly every evening, bringing me flowers, and at last he made a formal proposal in the most charming manner, laying his title, estates and all the rest of it at my feet.

"It was tempting, of course, but thank goodness I had always had a pretty fair share of common sense, especially as I got older. I told him I regretted I did not know him sufficiently well to take so serious a step, but promised to think it over."

"That was a plucky thing to do. There are not many who would have taken it like that."

"It was just plain common sense. The Count was a little huffy, though, and hinted that he had expected me to say yes on the spot.

"This happened about a week before my engagement was up, and I had already, as I told you, decided to go to Copenhagen for a bit.

"I must confess that there were moments when I was weak enough to think seriously of accepting the Count, but, fortunately, chance came to my help. There was an old Catholic priest at the house where I was staying, and I told him all about it. He undertook to make inquiries about the Count, and a few days after he had found out everything there was to know. He was a Count right enough——"

"No, really? I hadn't expected that."

"Well, he was—but as poor as a church mouse! He had been an officer in the army, and inherited an ancient title and a castle with heavily encumbered estates from his father, but squandered all there was left in his youth; now he was a sort of travelling inspector for an insurance company, and lived for the rest by his wits."

"And that was the end of the Count?"

"Yes, of course; but, you see, I was very near becoming a Countess."

"And then you went to Copenhagen?"

"Yes, and after that my story's simple enough. I stayed there some years, teaching music and painting, managed to get along comfortably enough. Betty started going to school, and we were as happy as could be."

"But how did you manage to escape further offers all that time in Copenhagen?

"Oh, you seem to imagine I had nothing else to think of but getting married. No, indeed, when one's gone through as much as I have, one thinks twice before venturing a second time. Well, as the years went on, and being in Denmark and more in touch with my own country, I began to long for home again. I thought surely all would be forgotten by now, and I should be able to make a living there. But it was not so easy after all. I got a step nearer when I was offered a post as teacher at a school in Gothenburg; I stayed there five long years. I had already sent Betty to board with a decent family in Norway, that she might not grow up altogether a foreigner, and now I was only waiting for the chance of coming home myself.

"My parents were dead. I had no relatives or friends to come back to, and yet for all that I was longing to be there again.

"At last the day came; I shall never forget the moment when we sighted the first glimpse of land. It seemed as if all my years of exile had been a dream. I felt myself full of life and strength and happiness, and I vowed to make a new career for myself in my own country.

"I got a place as housekeeper to an old lawyer in a little town on the coast, and lived there very comfortably for a year; but it was too narrow, too confined, so I moved to here—and here I am, doing what I can to make life tolerable. I've my health and strength, plenty of energy, and I'm very happy. And there you have it all, Mr. Holm—the life story of Emilie Rantzau. You can't say it's been an easy one altogether."

"No indeed, and I admire you for the way you have fought through so many handicaps and trials."

"Thank Heaven, I've never lost my strength of will, and now at last things seem to be getting brighter. Betty's so happy here, and delighted with her place at the office."

"Not more than I am to have her, I assure you. It's been like constant sunshine about the place since she came."

"Well, then, Mr. Holm, I hope you will keep my secret as if it were your own. I have nothing to be ashamed of in my past, but all the same I should not like it to be known here as things are now."

"You need have no fear of that, my dear lady, I assure you. I only hope you may be happy here, and feel yourself in every sense at home now you have come back—and I'm sure you deserve it after the long struggle you have had. But I must say it has not left its mark on you, for you're charming enough to turn the head of more than one respectable citizen in this little town."

"It's very kind of you to say so, but I think there's no fear of that. By the way, I'm your daughter's music-mistress, too. She seems very intelligent."

"H'm, as to that ... to tell the truth, I wanted to speak to you about her. I really don't know what to do with the child lately, the way she goes on."

"Really—oh, but surely——"

"I'll tell you all about it, if I may?"

"Yes, do."

"Well, it's like this. My excellent son and heir, you must know, was a decent enough lad to begin with. But then he somehow got in with a whole crowd of muddle-headed youths that call themselves artists, poets and acrobats of that sort. H'm ... you see, I'm a plain man myself, and to my mind the whole thing's nothing better than sheer downright laziness. They simply won't trouble to go in for any steady solid work in life, but go on living on this artistic humbug, as long as they can find anyone to provide for them."

"Like yourself, you mean?"

"Exactly. I've done a good deal in that line—up to now. Well, these young beauties have given the lad the idea that he's the making of a great artist, a budding Rubens at the least, whereas I'm convinced he couldn't even turn out a presentable signboard. And as for the girl, she's the coming Patti of her day, nothing less.

"I've raged about it, been as cross and discouraging as could be, but precious little difference it makes. No, they must be off to Paris, if you please, the pair of them, on their own. And that's where I want you, if you will, to help me stop their little game. Marie, I know, looks up to you like a sort of Providence."

"But really, Mr. Holm, she has talent, you know."

"Talent be hanged. I don't care if she has. What you've got to do is to tell her she's got a voice like a sore-throated sheep—that's what I want. And as for the boy, you can help me to cure him too, if you only will. You've had some experience, you know, in getting round the men; an old hand like you could easily manage him, I'm sure."

"Really, Mr. Holm, that was a pretty compliment, I must say."

"It was honestly meant, anyhow; you needn't be angry. Let's be frank with one another. We're old friends, you know, after all, Bianca."

"Holm, for Heaven's sake, never, never let that name pass your lips again. Promise me!" she said, with a glance of earnest entreaty.

"Forgive me, forgive me. May the devil cut out my sinful tongue if ever I utter it again. It's the most infernal nuisance, that tongue of mine, always getting me into trouble one way or another, like an alarm clock, you know, that goes off the moment you come near it."

"I'll do my best, Mr. Holm, to make your daughter give up her idea of making a career in that way. As a matter of fact, I should have said the same thing even if you had not asked me."

"Thanks, thanks. And the boy—how are we to manage about him?"

"We must think it over, each in our own way, and see what can be done. There must be some way of putting a stop to their running wild like that, especially with two hardened old diplomatists like you and myself working together."

"I'm sure we can; and now I'll say good-bye. For the present, at any rate, all we can do is to wait the course of events, as the grocer said when his wife ran off with the apprentice!"

VI
"REBECCA AND THE CAMELS"

"Very nice, my son, very pretty indeed. And I suppose it's your pet particular friend, Listad, who wrote it? Does credit to his imagination, I'm sure."

"It was written by a critic of ability and understanding."

"It would be, of course."

"And after that you surely can't have any objection to our going to Paris?"

"We should like to go at once, papa," added Marie.

"I dare say you would. But I think we ought to have a little more conclusive proof of your talent first. Well, I will make you an offer. William, you can send your picture to Copenhagen, and have it exhibited there anonymously: then we will abide by what the critics say. If it's good, why, I give in; if it's slated, then you agree to start work in the office here with me forthwith, and leave your paint-pots till your leisure, to amuse yourself and your friends apart from your work with me.

"And you, Marie, you can tell your music-mistress, Mrs. Rantzau, that you are seriously thinking of going to the opera, and ask her candid opinion of your prospects. If she advises you to do so, well and good, you shall go to Paris; if not, then you stay at home and begin to learn house-keeping like any other young woman. Isn't that fair?"

"Yes, that's fair enough," said William. "I'm not afraid of what the Copenhagen critics will say."

"And I know Mrs. Rantzau will tell me I ought to go on."

As soon as they had gone, Holm stole off quietly to Mrs. Rantzau and told her all that had passed.

The young people started on their packing at once, Marie in particular was busily occupied in completing her wardrobe. A new travelling-dress was ordered, and various purchases made.

"Don't you think it would be better to wait until we have heard the decision of the authorities," suggested Holm.

"Oh, but I shall hear from Mrs. Rantzau to-morrow," said Marie. "And it doesn't really matter, does it, if you don't get the answer till after I've gone?"

"H'm, I think I'd rather have it settled first, if it's all the same to you."

A week passed, however, and every day Marie had to try over again with Mrs. Rantzau; strange how particular she was now!

William had sent off his picture to Copenhagen, and was all anxiety to learn what had been said about it. The dealer had been instructed to send him press cuttings as soon as they appeared.

On Saturday morning, when Holm went up into the drawing-room, he found the pair very subdued. William was in the smoking-room, which was in darkness, looking out of the window, and Marie lay on the sofa in tears.

On the table lay an open letter from Mrs. Rantzau, as follows:

Holm read the letter, and went over to Marie.

"Don't cry, my child; you shall go to Paris all right, but we'll go together this time, for a holiday."

"Oh, I'm so miserable—hu, hu!"

"It won't be for long." And Holm sat comforting her as well as he could, until at last she went out of her own accord to lay the table for supper—a thing she had not troubled to do for a long time.

"Aha," thought Holm, "things are looking up a bit."

It was not a particularly cheerful meal, however, and William went off to his own room as soon as it was over.

A few days later a bundle of newspapers arrived by post from Copenhagen. William took the parcel with a trembling hand, and hurried off to his room to read them.

Not a word about "Rebecca and the Camels," beyond the dealer's advertisement of the exhibition. Ah, yes, here was something at last. And he read through the following, from one of the morning papers:

William turned very pale as he read. Then, taking up the bundle of papers, he thrust the whole collection into the stove, and began nervously walking up and down.

An hour later he went downstairs to the office, and took his seat at the desk, opposite Miss Rantzau.

Just then Holm entered from the shop. He made no remarks, but put on his coat and went down to the waterside, where he found Bramsen sitting in a corner, looking troubled and unhappy.

"Why, what's the matter, Bramsen?"

"Oh, Lord, everything's going contrariwise, it seems."

"Why, what's happened?"

"Well, there's Andrine gone and joined the Salvation Army, with a hat like that!" And he made a descriptive motion of his hands to his ears.

"The devil she has!"

"Ay, you may well say that. Downhill's better than up, as the man said when he fell over the cliff. But," and he sighed, "it never rains but it pours. Amande's gone and got laid up too."

"Amande? Poor child! What's wrong with her?"

"Doctor says she's got tulips or something in her ears."

"Polypi, I suppose you mean."

"Well, something of that sort, anyway."

"Sorry to hear that, Bramsen. And I'd just come down to tell you how splendid I was feeling myself; haven't been so happy for years. What do you think! William's started work at the office, and Marie's given up the singing business. Isn't that a surprise?"

"Ay, that it is. Never have thought it—as the old maid said when a young man kissed her on the stairs. I'm glad to hear it, though—they've been pretty average troublesome up to now."

"I should say so. Well, let's hope Andrine will come to her senses as well, after a bit."

"She must have got it pretty badly, I tell you, Knut. Why, only this morning if she didn't hand me over the savings-bank book, said she'd given up all thoughts of worldly mammon for good." And Bramsen drew out the book from his pocket.

"What do you say to that, £130, 16s. 2d. She must have been a wonder to put by all that."

"You're right there, Bramsen; she must be a born manager."

"And now I'm going to try a steamboat. There's one I know of that's for sale, the Patriot, and I believe it's a bargain."

"Don't you go doing anything foolish now, Bramsen; you're comfortably off as you are, and if you want more wages, why, you've only got to say so."

"No, thanks, Knut. I'm earning well enough, and doing first-rate all round. But it's the freedom I want, to set out on my own again."

"Well, you could take a run down the fjord on one of the coasting steamers any time you like."

"Ah, but it's not the same. Look at that fellow Johnsen now, with the Rap hauling away with all sorts of craft, for all he drinks like a fish. Only last year he went on board so properly overloaded, he fell down the hold and smashed a couple of ribs."

"And you want to go and do likewise? You're a long sight better off where you are, if you ask me, Bramsen."

"Well, I'll think it over, Knut. As long as I've got all this worldly mammon in my inside pocket, I feel like doing things with it. And there's no knowing but Andrine might get converted back again any day and want it back—and where'd I be then?"

"H'm. I hope you'll have her back again the same as ever, before long."

"Why, as to that, I hope so too, and that's the truth. But that's the more reason not to lose the chance now she's taken that way. I've thought of trying a share in a vessel too. There's Olsen, skipper of the Baron Holberg. You must know Olsen, I'm sure—fellow with a red beard—Baron Olsen, they call him. He offered me a fourth share in the brig for £65."

Bramsen livened up after a while, and the two friends were soon chatting away in their usual cheery fashion.

"What would you say to me marrying again, Bramsen?"

Bramsen sat without moving for a while, then took out his clasp-knife and began whittling at a splinter of wood.

"Well, what do you say?

"I'd say it's a risky thing to do."

"It generally is, I suppose, but it's always turned out all right up to now."

"You've had a deal of truck with the womenfolk in your time, Knut. Got a way of managing them somehow. Seems to me you start off with being sort of friendly with them in a general way, and then they get to running after you and want to marry you straight away. Ay, you've a sort of way of your own with the women for sure. Me being a simple sort of an individual, it's the other way round—why, I had to ask Andrine three times before she'd have me. Would you believe it, she was as near as could be to taking John Isaksen, that's built like a telegraph post, and never a tooth in his mouth, so he was that afraid of crusts they called him Crusty John."

"Well, women are queer cattle, you're right in that."

"Ay, that they are. Like a bit of clockwork inside, all odd bits of wheels and screws and things, little and big, some turning this way and some that. And the mainspring, as you might say, that's love, and that's why there's some goes too fast, by reason of the mainspring being stronger than it should, and others taking it easy like, and going slow...."

"And some that stop altogether."

"Why, yes, till they get a new mainspring and start going again. If not, why, they're done for, that's all."

"You've a neat way of putting it, Bramsen. Like a parable."

"And then they're mostly cased up smart and fine, and we wear them mostly near our hearts——"

"Bravo! Right again!"

"Well, now, begging your pardon, Knut, might I be so bold as to ask if it's a widow you've got your eye on this time?"

"No, indeed, my dear fellow, it's not."

"Good for you, Knut. I've never cared much for second-hand goods myself, there's always something wrong with them somewhere, and they soon go to bits."

"You're not far out either. I like them new myself."

"But I was going to tell you, I'd a rare time of it here the other day. You've maybe heard about me gammoning the youngsters down here—ay, and others too for that matter, simple folk like Garner, for instance—that I could talk Chinese through having picked up the lingo the five years I was on board the Albatros in the China Seas?"

And, by way of illustration, Bramsen showed his eyes round sideways, screwed up his mouth and uttered the following syllables: "Hi—ho—fang—chu—ka—me—lang—poh—poh—ku!"

Holm laughed till he had to sit down on a barrel. Bramsen was in his element now; Andrine and the Salvation Army, Amanda and her tulips, were forgotten.

"Well, the day before yesterday, while I was stacking fish up in the loft, in comes an old gentleman, sort of learned and reverend looking he was.

"'Mr. Paal Abrahamsen?' says he, and looks at me solemn-like through a pair of blue spectacles.

"'That's me, your Highness,' says I, for I judged he must be something pretty high. Then he puts down his stick, a mighty fine one with a silver top, and opens a big book.

"Aha, thinks I to myself, it'll be the census, that's it. For you know there's been all this business about taking people's census ever since New Year. Well, if he wanted my census, I was agreeable, so I started away polite as could be:

"'Surname and Christian names, married or single, and so on, that's what you'll be wanting,' says I.

"'No, my friend,' says he, 'I only called to inquire—you speak Chinese, I understand. Several years in the country, were you not?'

"Well, I reckoned he couldn't be a Chinaman himself. I gave a squint up under his spectacles to see if his eyes were slantywise, but they were all right.

"'H'm,' says I, 'I know a little, but it's nothing much. Not worth counting, really.'

"'Don't be afraid, my good man. It was just a few simple words and phrases in the language I'd very much like to ask about. My name is'—well, it was Professor something or other—Birk or Cork or Stork or something—'from Christiania,' he said.

"'Well,' thinks I to myself, 'it doesn't look as if he knew much more than I do myself. I may bluff him yet.' And we squatted down on a barrel apiece, with an empty sugar-box between us for a table.

"'Mr. Abrahamsen,' says he, 'if you'd kindly repeat a sentence, anything you like, in Chinese.' And he takes up a grand gold pencil-case and starts to write in the book.

"'Aha,' thought I, 'now we're sitting to the hardest part,' as the miller said when he got to the eighth commandment. Anyhow, here goes. And I rattles off, solemn-like: 'Me—hoh—puh—fih—chu—lang—ra—ta—ta—poh—uh—ee—lee—shung—la—uh—uh—uh!' And down it all goes in his book like winking.

"'Very good, very good. And now, what does it mean?'

"'What it means——' Well, that was a nasty one, as you can imagine. Funny thing, but I'd never thought about that. 'Mean—why—well, it means—H'm. Why, it's as much as to say—well, it's a sort of—sort of national anthem, as you might call it. Sons of China's Ancient Land. Not quite that exactly, but something like it, you understand. Chinese is—well, it's different, you know.'

"He looked at me pretty sharply under his glasses, but I stood my ground and never winked a muscle. And then, bless me if he wasn't mean enough to ask me to say it all over again.

"Well, I could have stood on my head in the dark easier than remember what it was I'd said before. So I puts on an air, superior-like, and says to him:

"'Wait a bit, it's your turn now. Let's see if you can manage it first.'

"'Well, my good sir, to begin with, Sons of Norway's Ancient Land is a sort of national anthem if you like, but I hardly think it's been translated into Chinese. And in the second place, the word for sons is "Yung-li," not "Me-hoh," as you said.'

"'Beg pardon, Professor, but there's different dialectrics out there, same as here: some talks northland and some westland fashion, not to speak of shorthand, and it's all as different as light and dark.'

"Well, as luck would have it, that set him laughing, and he shuts up the big book and tucks away the pencil in his waistcoat pocket. And he thanks me most politely for the information.

"'You're very welcome, I'm sure,' says I. 'Ah—dec—oh—oh—shung—la—la—poh!'

"But if we ever get another of that learned sort along, why, I'm going to tell them Paal Abrahamsen's dead and gone, poor lad, and can't talk Chinese any more. I never was much good at these examinations."

VII
HOLM & SON

"Knut, my boy, you've been a considerable fool. You should have sent the youngsters off to Paris as they wanted, then you could have fixed things up here in your own fashion while they were away."

The thought that William might enter the lists against him as a rival for Betty's favour never occurred to him, however, until one day when Broker Vindt came round and found his friend Holm standing behind the counter in the shop, with William in possession of the inner office.

Vindt was the generally recognised and accredited jester of the town; there was nothing he would not find a way of poking fun at, and even Banker Hermansen had smilingly to submit to his witticisms.

Vindt was an old bachelor, a dried-up, lanky figure of a man, with a broad-brimmed felt hat set on his smooth black wig and a little florid face with a sharp nose.

"Beg pardon, Holm," he began, "would you mind asking if the senior partner's disengaged for a moment?"

"Oh, go to the devil!"

"Well, I was thinking of taking a holiday somewhere—and I dare say he'd put me up. Better than nothing, as the parson said when he found a button in the offertory box. You might say the same, you know; be thankful he's keeping you on at all."

"It's a good thing, if you ask me, to see young people doing something nowadays."

"Ah, my boy, it all depends what they're doing! Apropos, the other young person in there, is she to be taken into partnership as well? Deuced pretty girl that, Holm."

"Vindt, you're incorrigible. Come upstairs and have a glass of wine. I've got some fine '52 Madeira...."

"Started as early as that, did you? No, thanks all the same. I think I'll wait till the little Donna inside there's moved upstairs for good, then perhaps we may get a look in at the office again some day."

And Vindt strode out of the shop. Crossing the square, he met Hermansen, who had just come from the repair shops, where the Spaniard was being overhauled. The only part of her hull that could be considered sound consisted of a few plates at the after end. Wherefore Vindt naturally offered his congratulations, "All's well that ends well, eh, what?"

The banker swallowed the pill without wincing, and merely observed:

"Yes, it's an unsatisfactory business, patching up old wrecks. Apropos, Vindt, how's the gout getting on? Going anywhere for a cure this summer?"

"Can't afford it, I'm afraid. Bills for repairing wrecks, you know, are apt to be a bit heavy when they come in."

Hermansen gave it up after that, but he was considerably annoyed when he returned to the bank, as Petersen, the cashier, could see from the way he flung down his gloves and hat—it was rarely the banker showed so much irritation.

Meantime, Holm was thinking over what Vindt had said. "Wait till the little Donna's moved upstairs for good...." Now what on earth did he mean by that? Vindt could not possibly have any idea that he, Knut Holm, was contemplating marriage. William and Betty, then? Nonsense—the idea was preposterous; it certainly could never have entered his head, far less Vindt's. Still, it was certainly queer, the way the boy stuck to the office and never stirred out....

In days past it had been impossible to keep him at the desk for an hour on end; now, he hung over the books as if he were nailed to the stool.

"Anyhow, we'll make an end of it some way or other. I'm not going to sit here and be made a fool of."

And Holm went into the inner office. By a rare chance, William had gone out, and he found Betty alone.

The girl had her mother's irresistible charm. Not so handsome, true, but of a gentler type, thought Holm to himself as he looked at the fresh young face.

And that fair curling hair of hers went splendidly with the dark eyebrows.

"You're working too hard; you mustn't overdo it, you know," he said kindly.

"Not the least bit, really; I like it. I've quite fallen in love with the big ledger here, it's such a nice comfortable old-fashioned thing."

"So you like old-fashioned things? Perhaps you would include me in the category of old?"

"You, Mr. Holm! Of course not. Why, you're just in the prime of life."

"Well, yes, I hope so. But what would you say, now, if a man—in the prime of life—were to say to you, My dear Miss Betty, will you come and help to brighten up my home? You're too good to wear yourself out with working in an office, when you might be filling a man's life with comfort and content."

Betty got down from her stool and stood looking at him in astonishment.

"Really, Mr. Holm, I don't know what you mean!"

"Oh, I know I'm much older than you, Miss Betty, but my heart's as young as ever, and I can offer you a good home and devoted affection, better, perhaps, than you would find elsewhere."

He placed himself opposite her and endeavoured to meet her eyes, but she took refuge behind the ledger, and would not look up.

"I've seen ups and downs in my time, Miss Betty, and learned a good deal of life; you won't find me such a poor support to lean on."

"Oh, please, Mr. Holm, please don't say any more. I—I must go home now, mama will be waiting...." She broke off, and began hurriedly and nervously putting on her things.

Holm put out his hand and held hers a moment or two, then she ran out, and soon her light, firm step had passed out of hearing.

Holm was annoyed.

"H'm, you're out of practice, that's what it is. Getting old. Shouldn't have sprung it on her suddenly like that. Never flurry a turtle dove; slips out of the ark if you do, and never comes back. But you don't see Knut Holm giving up the game for a little thing like that; no, we must get our old friend Bianca to lend a hand. She's sensible enough to know a good son-in-law when she sees one."

Next morning, when Betty arrived at the office, Holm went along to call on Mrs. Rantzau; it was to her he must now look for help.

Mrs. Rantzau grew very serious when Holm enlightened her as to his feelings for Betty. She pointed out at once the great difference in their ages, and was very doubtful on that head. Nevertheless, she undertook to speak to Betty herself.

She could not but admit that the offer was a tempting one and that Betty's future would be assured—which to a woman in her position was important enough. She would in any case give the matter her most earnest consideration.

Holm took all this to mean that Mrs. Rantzau herself was not disinclined to approve of the idea, but that it would take time to get it settled.

He felt more cheerful now, and hoped for victory in the end. Mrs. Rantzau, he was convinced, would use her utmost influence with her daughter, though of course they would think it looked better not to accept at once!

On returning to the office he fancied Betty was more than usually friendly, and came to the conclusion that she had perhaps begun to think more seriously over the matter.

In order to prepare the children in any case, he thought it best to take William into his confidence, without further delay, as to his intention of marrying again. William was accordingly asked to come upstairs.

When they entered the drawing-room Holm locked the door, and motioned William to a seat on the sofa beside him.

"But what on earth are you making all this mystery about, old man?" said William.

"Old, did you say? You might be thankful, my boy, if you were as youthful as I am."

"Why, what's the matter now?"

"I want to speak to you seriously, my son. For seventeen years now I have been a lone, lone man...."

"Seventeen years?"

"That's what I said. It's seventeen years now since Mrs. Gronlund died. But what is time? A mere trifle. Anyhow, I'm getting tired of this lonely life."

"Very natural, I'm sure."

"And I have therefore resolved to marry again."

"Have you, though? Good idea."

"Yes; don't you think so? And I have decided to take a wife who is first of all a good-hearted and domesticated woman, but at the same time one who will be able to brighten up the home."

"Excellent! I quite agree. A sound and healthy man of your type should certainly marry as soon as opportunity occurs. And I don't mind saying that the life we two have led here all these years hasn't exactly been an ideal existence."

"Perhaps not—though you might have been worse off. However, now that I am about to bring home a bride for the third——"

"And last time?"

"—I cannot but feel a certain emotion in saying to you, my son, as I do now: look up to her as a mother, love her as she deserves, for she is a woman in a thousand."

"I'm sure, father, you could not have made a better choice. Mrs. Rantzau is, I believe, an excellent woman."

"Mrs. Rantzau! What on earth are you talking about?"

"Why, isn't it her you mean? Both Marie and I have noticed you've been visiting her pretty often of late."

"Me—to marry a woman that age!"

"But she must be much younger than you!"

"Oh—that's different. Men can marry at any age and keep on marrying."

"But who is the favoured one, then?"

"The favoured one, as you are pleased to call her, is Miss Betty——"

"Betty! You marry Betty Rantzau?"

"Yes; don't you think it's a good idea? Suit us all round."

"Oh, it's ridiculous, impossible!"

"And why, may I ask?"

"Well, to begin with, Betty won't have you, and, besides——"

"Well...?"

"Betty belongs to me!"

Holm jumped up from the sofa, and stood facing William, who sat quietly and calmly as ever.

"William—I should never have expected this of you. H'm, I've borne with a good deal, one way and another, and had a lot of low-down tricks played on me in my time, but this...."

"Betty's the only woman I've ever cared for, father; from the first time I set eyes on her I've...."

"A passing fancy, nothing more. A few weeks' holiday in Paris, and you'll have forgotten all about it."

"There you're mistaken. I'm serious for once."

"And I'm serious too. And this time I'm not going to give in."

Holm turned sharply on his heel and went down to the office. He had expected to find Betty there, but she was out. On the desk lay a note, in her writing, asking to be excused for leaving the office; she was not feeling well, and had gone home.

He strode up and down in great agitation. Knut Holm was thoroughly angry now.

His own son as a rival! Was there ever such a ridiculous state of things? If Vindt got any inkling of the situation, there would be no end to the gossip he would make of it—it would be impossible to remain in the place.

Give way at once, and submit? No, that was not Knut Holm's way. And indeed, the very thought made him feel miserable at heart, for he had grown really fond of Betty.

Well, let her choose for herself, that was the best way. She and her mother could work it out together, and see which looked most like business.

He went down to the waterside to hunt up Bramsen; in times of real difficulty, when he felt uncertain how to act, it was always helpful to spend an hour listening to Bramsen's honest and genial talk.

Up in the loft he found Bramsen, lying at his ease on a couple of coffee-bags, studying a telegram.

"Hullo, Bramsen, what are you up to now?"

Bramsen half rose, and sat holding one hand to his forehead, waving the telegram in the other.

"Well, if this isn't the queerest...."

"There's a deal of queer things about just lately. What's happening now?"

"Why, you know I told you how I'd got all that worldly out of Andrine, when she joined the Salvation Army?"

"Well, has she come to her senses again?"

"Getting on that way, anyhow. It was just as I thought. When she got up this morning she began sort of throwing out hints that I'd better let her have the bank-book again after all."

"Aha, that looks like coming round."

"Well, you can guess I'd been expecting something of the sort, and so I started in a little speculation while there was time."

"Not trying steamboats, I hope?"

"No, no. But I got wind of a good thing in another way altogether. You know Johnsen I told you about?"

"Bramsen, don't tell me you've got mixed up in any sort of deal with that drunken old fool?"

"Drunk? He's as right as can be now. Turned teetotal, and made some money too. Any amount. Well, last week he came along to me and said he and Baron Olsen had gone shares and bought up a boat that was lying at Strandvik—Erik was the name. They'd got her dirt cheap, but they'd let me come in for a third share, and be managing owner, with Johnsen as skipper. Well, I agreed. The Erik went off last week, and now here comes a telegram from some place called Havre; but it's a queer sort of message. I can't make head or tail of it myself. Here, see what it says: 'Drink dock yesterday.—Johnsen.' Drunk in dock, if you ask me—and him a teetot'lar and all!"

Holm took the telegram and read it over, but could make nothing of it. "Drink dock yesterday" was all it said.

"Well, it's something to do with drink, anyway, by the look of it—whether he means he got drunk in dock, or drank the dock dry to be out of temptation, he's probably got delirium tremens by this time, and drunk the ship as well."

"Holm—you don't think he's gone off the rails again—honestly?" Bramsen jumped up from his couch and stood aghast.

"Well, whatever did you want to be such a fool for, Bramsen? Managing owner indeed—why, you've no more idea of managing than those coffee-bags."

"Ho, haven't I? And me been round the Horn and Cape of Good Hope as well, and nearly eaten by crocodiles in Bahia, dead of yellow fever, and all but burned in Rio, an ear with frostbite in the Arctic, been shooting monkeys in Mozambique."

"Monkey yourself, if you ask me."

"That may be; but, anyhow, you can't say I don't know anything about shipping. Your smart shipowners sitting all day in their offices and looking out places on the map, you suppose they know more about it than me that's been thirty years navigating on my own all over the torrential globe. I'm not good enough to manage a bit of a ship myself, eh? I'm a plain man, I know, but I'm no fool for all that, and I don't see what call you've got to go throwing wet blankets on all my deals and doings anyhow."

Bramsen was thoroughly offended now, and Holm found it difficult to bring him round.

"It's not that, Bramsen; you know I don't mean it that way. But I do think it's foolish of you to entrust your property to an irresponsible fellow like Johnsen."

"Well, what's a man to do when everything's going by the board all round? Ay, it's other little matters that's the trouble as well. I don't mind telling you, Knut, but, flay and fester me, you must swear you won't say a word to a soul."

"You know I can keep a secret, Bramsen."

"Well, it's this way. Armanda's only just been confirmed, and, would you believe it, if the girl hasn't gone and got engaged already, with Johnsen's son; Carljohan's his name, and a devilish smart lad too. I know he failed for his mate's certificate this year, but after all that doesn't go for much, for he can walk on his hands as easy as his feet, and he's as nimble as a squirrel up aloft."

"But have you given your consent?"

"Consent?" Bramsen stared in astonishment. "Consent? They never asked for it, and I never asked myself—how should I? I'd never have done anything but ask for consent all the times I was engaged, and then, what about you? Have you asked anyone's consent?"

"No, but...."

"Well, there you are! Anyhow, we had a sort of celebration party up at home one evening when Andrine was gone to meeting. Take my word for it, but old Johnsen was a bit sore that night; and wishing he'd never gone in for teetotalling! But the rest of us had a fine uproarious time of it, and I tried my hand with young Carljohan at one or two little wrestling tricks. Aha, he's a good one, but he'll need to learn a bit more before he can get over me. There's a dodge or two I learned from a Mulatto on the coast of Brazil many years ago...."

"But what's all this got to do with the boat?"

"Why, you see, Armanda says Carljohan must get a berth as skipper, so we must use the chance, while her mother's all Salvationing, to get hold of a share in a vessel, put in old Johnsen as skipper at first, and let the youngster take it on after.... See?"

"Oho! Women again, Bramsen, what?"

"Ay, they do us every time, and that's the truth. But we can't get on without them all the same. Like pepper in the soup—gets you in the throat now and again, but it gives you an appetite."

Bramsen had by now almost forgotten the telegram; he grew serious again, however, as it caught his eye.

"'Drink dock yesterday—drink dock....'" he scratched his whiskers and muttered curses at Johnsen and his telegram.

Holm sat looking at the thing.

"Bramsen," he said at last, "I've got it. Don't you see what it is?"

"No, I'm blest if I do."

"It's come through a bit wrong, that's all, mutilated in transit. 'Erik' it ought to be. 'Erik dock yesterday'—that is—he's got there all right and docked yesterday."

Bramsen turned a somersault over the coffee-bags, slapped his thighs and stood doubled up with laughter.

"Well, to be sure! A nice lot they telegraph people must be over there! And I was certain sure he'd gone on the drink and sold us all up this time—ha, ha, ha!"

While Holm and Bramsen were thus consoling each other down at the quay, Mrs. Rantzau and Betty were sitting quietly in the little parlour now that the pupils had gone.

Betty was crying, with her arms round her mother's neck, while her mother pressed the girl closely to her, patting her hair tenderly.

"Don't cry, Betty, my child; you know we've always had each other, good times and bad. Ah, my dear, it's a sad childhood you had, but I could do no more. You must do as your heart tells you, my child."

"Oh, mother, and we were so happy together, and everything going so well."

"We'll manage somehow, Betty dear; you've never known me give up yet, have you, child?"

"No—but it's so cruel to think of you having to work and slave all the time—and we might have lived in luxury the two of us—but I can't, mother, I can't."

"Never think of it, Betty dear; I am well and strong, and we'll get along all right. And if you don't care to stay on at the office there after what's happened, why, there must be other places you could get."

"Yes, I know—but it was so nice there, and I was just getting into things so well. And—and—Mr. William was so nice and kind."

She fell to crying once more, but Mrs. Rantzau sat up sharply.

"William—was he nice to you, you say?"

"Yes, so kind and friendly, and he told me about things—— Oh, he's a good man, I know."

"Told you about what things, Betty?"

"About his life, and how he'd wanted to be an artist, and was studying for it and all that—but then he thought it was his duty to help his old father with the business."

Betty grew calmer after a while, and told her mother a great deal of what had passed between Holm and herself, and what William had said.

Emilie Rantzau lay awake till late that night thinking over what Betty had said. It was difficult to get a clear idea of the situation, for the various scenes seemed contradictory. Had William honourable intentions regarding Betty?—that was the main thing.

But she had met with so many disappointments in life, that it almost seemed as if Fate were purposely deluding her with visions that were never to be realised. Again and again she had seen the future opening before her in happiness and prosperity, only to find the prospect vanish like a mirage, leaving her alone as before in the desert of life.

VIII
MALLA TRAP

She was now about sixty, tall, thin, and with greyish hair that hung in two heavy curls on either side of her forehead.

But Malla Trap was no ordinary old maid with black crochet mittens and knitting-needle, sitting roasting apples over a stove in an over-heated room.

No; on a fine winter's day, with clean, smooth ice across the fjord, one might see Malla Trap's slender figure skimming along on skates as gaily as any girl of seventeen.

She had a splendid constitution and physique—weakness was a thing unknown to her. And she had carefully hardened herself from youth up, for she had a dread of becoming old and invalid.

As an instance of her prowess of endurance it was stated as a reliable fact that she had set out one bitterly cold morning to skate across the fjord, and, falling through a patch of thin ice a couple of miles out, had not only managed to extricate herself, but instead of making at once for home, continued on her way to Strandvik. There, arriving at the house of her old friend Prois, she declared she was frozen so stiff that anyone might have broken her across the middle like a sugar-stick.

A slight cold was the sole effect of her bath, which otherwise seemed to have been merely refreshing!

She had always had leisure and means to arrange her mode of life as she pleased, and had made the most of her opportunities in that direction. Her whole existence was conducted in a casual, easy-going fashion, not tied down to habit, rule and order.

Her idea of charity, and manner of exercising the same, were no less eccentric.

One Christmas, for instance, she had presented each of the old derelicts at the Seamen's Home with a pair of ski, declaring that with a little practice they would soon learn to use them, and that the exercise would give them a new lease of life. The poor old gouty invalids were hard put to it to hobble along on their feet with the aid of sticks, and had certainly never dreamed of running about on ski.

When Pastor Arff, who was extremely stout, complained of heartburn, she gave him a skiff, with oars complete, on the express condition that he should get up at six every morning and row a couple of miles up and down the river.

"I assure you, my dear Pastor, you'll feel as lively as a fish if you do!"

She would go to meetings in the afternoon, and sit among the earnest sisterhood, taking an interested part in discussions as to mission work among the heathen, and then go on in the evening to see the latest and riskiest pieces at the theatre, which she thoroughly enjoyed. It was a known fact that she had tried to enliven the work of the local soup-kitchen by introducing raisins as an ingredient in the pea-soup, but the old ladies on the committee had put their foot down—that was going too far. Malla Trap urged them to try it—it was delicious, she declared—but without avail.

The townsfolk were so used to her eccentricities that no one ever took much notice of them, for all knew she was a thoroughly good soul, who in her unobtrusive way had brought happiness to many a home in distress. It was not always by direct gifts that she effected this; her confident and encouraging manner gave new hope and strength to many who were sinking under the burden of their struggle. Her tall, erect figure came like a breath of the fresh north-west wind, sweeping clouds from the sky.

Not many knew that it was Malla Trap who had given Bertelsen the idea of starting a paper shop when the firm in which he was cashier failed, and he found himself thrown out, with a wife and children to look after, and no means of support.

The scene would probably have been something like this:

"Now, my dear man, it's no good giving up like that."

"But what am I to do?—there's nowhere to turn—only the workhouse. That's what it'll be—the workhouse."

"Nonsense, Bertelsen! pull yourself together, do. Look here! I've an idea. There's that shop in the square, next to Holm; it's vacant, and you could get it cheap. Start a little business there with paper, cardboard, wall-papers and that sort of thing. It'll be a success—it must!"

He looked up a little—paper—business—his thoughts took a definite direction. Hope began to dawn, and Malla Trap had accomplished a piece of the finest missionary work a human soul ever can—she had made a sunny thought to grow in a tortured and despairing mind.

Her best friend was Miss Strom, a woman of considerable wit and education, and daughter of the late governor of the province.

When the pair of them were together, Beate Strom would lecture at length, pointing out to Malla Trap the necessity of paying some regard to public opinion; it really would not do to go on acting in that independent fashion.

"It's no good, my dear," Malla Trap would say. "If I can't do things my own way, which is at least honest and decent enough, why, I might as well give up altogether."

"Not at all," said Beate Strom earnestly; "one must consider what people say."

"Nonsense, Beate! You're far too well brought up, my dear, that's the trouble."

And when Malla Trap gave a supper-party, with lobster mayonnaise and black pudding, Beate Strom gave her up as hopeless. There was a limit, she declared, to the extent to which innovations should be permitted.

But Malla Trap simply pleaded that they were her favourite dishes—and why shouldn't she? Was she to sit and eat plain bread and cheese when she felt like lobster mayonnaise and could get it? No, thank you!

As already mentioned, Miss Trap was a regular visitor at Holm's, and had her own place at table.

The children were fond of her, and she of them. Whenever anything went wrong, or they were in trouble, both William and Marie would go to Aunt Trap for advice.

After his last conversation with his father, William was at a loss what to make of the affair. It was natural, therefore, he should confide in Aunt Trap.

He told her that he could not be certain himself as to the state of Betty's feelings towards him, but was almost sure she was favourably inclined at least.

Malla Trap asked him earnestly if it were not after all only a passing fancy on his part; she was very sceptical as to the nature of men's tender feelings.

William, of course, declared emphatically that it was true and enduring love, and that he would be blighted for ever if he could not make Betty his wife.

At last Malla Trap believed him, and promised to do what she could to put matters right.

She decided first of all to go and talk to Mrs. Rantzau, with whom she had some slight acquaintance; but on the way she encountered Mrs. Rantzau herself walking with Hermansen, and from the manner in which the pair appeared absorbed in each other's society, Malla Trap judged it best to postpone the call for the present. Immediately after, Vindt, her cousin, came strolling along, and stopped to speak.

"Well, Mrs. Mallaprop, how's things with you?"

"Very well, thanks, rude boy."

Vindt stood a moment pointing with his stick to the pair that had just passed.