Transcriber's note

Obvious typographer's errors have been corrected, but the author's spelling has otherwise been retained. A [list of word corrections] can be found after the book.

Dry Fish and Wet

Translated from the Norwegian
by W. Worster, M.A.

Dry Fish and Wet

Tales from a Norwegian Seaport

BY
ELIAS KRÆMMER

GYLDENDAL
11 HANOVER SQUARE, LONDON, W. 1
COPENHAGEN · CHRISTIANIA
1922

Page

[The Town] 1
[Knut G. Holm] 4
[Bramsen] 25
[Hermansen of the Bank] 36
[Mrs. Rantzau's Story] 56
["Rebecca and the Camels"] 73
[Holm & Son] 86
[Malla Trap] 101
[Clapham Junction] 115
[The Ship comes Home] 131
[The Concert] 136
[Old Nick] 141
[Cilia] 160
[A Royal Visit] 189
[Peter Oiland] 200
[Emilie Rantzau] 213
[The Eva Maria] 239
[The Henrik Ibsen] 250
[Nils Petter's Legacy] 265
[The Admiral] 277
[Dirrik] 311

I
THE TOWN

The last census showed a population of 19,991 inhabitants, but if anyone asked "Holm at the Corner" how big the place was, he would say "between twenty and thirty thousand"—a figure he considered reasonable enough, counting the annual increment in the families he knew.

The town had its own traditions. Natives could speak with pride of the days, now long passed, when the firms of C. B. Taline and Veuve Erik Strom had great cargoes of coffee coming direct from Rio, while Danish vessels by the dozen lay alongside the warehouses discharging corn, and unwieldy Dutchmen took in baulks large enough to cut up into arm-chair sections—ay, there was proper timber in those days, not like the thin weedy sticks that come down the river now!

And the place had other memories, apart from trade and commerce. There was a whole gallery of clerics whose brilliant names cast a glow of distinction long after they themselves were dead and gone; old men remembered them, and the town could feel itself, as it were, related to episcopal sees all over the country. Great trading houses of old standing came to ruin, fortunes were shattered, and crisis after crisis came and went, but every such period merely added a fresh chapter to the history of the town, making new stories for fathers to tell their sons. In course of time, a whole collection of such stories had grown up about these merchant princes, for trade was, after all, the chief interest of the place and so remained. When the old men got together, talk would invariably turn upon such matters as Nils Berg's grand speculations in the Crimean War, or the disastrous failure of Balle & Co.; while the younger ones, who were in the swim, enlisted further shareholders in their factories and ship-owning concerns. It was a town with plenty of grit in it, no lack of young stock to carry on the work.

True, there were times when it seemed to languish, to be dwindling away, when periods of crisis had swept away what appeared to be its chief support; but a breathing space was all that was needed, and soon the old spirit was awake once more, and life went on as bravely as before.

And so it went on for generation after generation, while the river flowed, broad and smooth as ever, down the valley, pouring its ice-water into the fjord each spring. Up the hillsides on either hand the roads turned up and curved among thicket and bush, and the higher one climbed the clearer showed the town below with its rows of houses and its churches.

Those who were born in the town and had spent their youth there, but whom fate had later moved to other parts of the country, made it a practice, when they came home, to climb the hillside and look out over the town, as it lay there rich in memories. And the longer one had been away, the stronger they seemed to grow; for there is a strange power in such memories of a little, old town.

II
KNUT G. HOLM

Knut G. Holm had had his ups and downs; no one knew exactly how he stood. Failure and crisis had raged about him, and many a time public opinion had given him but a short while to keep above water himself, but he always managed to get through somehow, though there were times when he had not credit for five shillings, when the commercial travellers gave his corner premises the stealthy go-by, in the confident belief that he would put his shutters up next day. But he never did. And at last it grew to a proverb, that Knut G. Holm was like a cat; you might throw him out of a top-floor window, but he would always land on his feet in the end!

In the little office behind the shop there was always a little gathering before dinner-time, between one and two, to hear Holm holding forth; for he was a man with an unusual gift of speech, and whatever might happen in the place, he was always the first to get hold of it.

Dealer Vagle was a fool to pay £1600 for that dairy farm—Knut Holm had no hesitation in saying as much; nor was he afraid to make public his opinion that Jorgensen the hatter was not such a fool as he looked in selling the property referred to. Everyone knew Holm's "gossip-shop," as the office was generally called, but no one took offence at his extravagant talk, for all knew he meant no harm, but was really one of the kindliest of men.

He was always terribly busy, for he had a hand in everything, from the Silicate Products Company, of which he was a director, to the machine shops, of which he was chairman, and which paid a steady 20 per cent. per annum.

Knut Holm was no longer a youth, he was nearing fifty-seven; but to judge from his fair-haired, rotund figure as one met him in the street, always with his coat unbuttoned and his silk hat at a rakish angle, one would have set him down as ten years younger.

There was a peculiar briskness in his gait as he walked up the street in business hours, stopping to speak with every soul he met, and yet with such haste that the person last addressed would generally be left staring open-mouthed, without having had the chance of uttering a syllable.

Holm had long been thinking of getting in a lady clerk, a reliable person who could look after the office and keep the books up to date. Peder Clasen and Garner had both been with him for many years, but both felt more at home outside in the shop, and never troubled about bookkeeping more than strictly necessary, and hardly that, with the result that the books were generally half a year behind. Nothing had come of the lady-clerk idea, however, until one day Dr. Blok looked in and asked if Holm could find any use for a young lady he knew, and could safely recommend, a Miss Betty Rantzau. Her mother taught singing; had come to the town some six months before; and the daughter was a willing and well-educated girl; it would be a good action to find her something to do. Clasen and Garner, not to speak of Holm himself, awaited her arrival with considerable interest. She was tall and slender, with a wealth of fair hair, and pretty teeth that showed when she smiled. She offered her hand with frank kindliness to Clasen as she came in. "So we are to work together," she said. "Very kind of you, I'm sure," stammered Clasen in confusion. "Mr. Holm is in the office; will you please to go in?"

Soon after, she was duly installed on the high stool in the office, with Holm himself sitting opposite, at the other side of the desk. She managed the old daybook with surprising ease; Holm glanced at her from time to time as she worked. He found it difficult to open conversation; it was queer to have a woman about the place like this, and at such close quarters. He felt himself obliged to be a little careful of his words,—a thing he was altogether unaccustomed to in the office.

Next day, the usual meeting in the "gossip-shop" was of unusually brief duration, for as Vindt, the stockbroker, declared when he came out, "Damme, but it's spoiled the whole thing, having a blessed woman in there listening to every word you say." Whereto Holm replied that it was "sort of comfortable to have a pleasant young face to look at, instead of a wrinkled old pumpkin like yours, Vindt!" Vindt growled, and took his departure hastily.

And it was not many days before Holm was chatting away easily to Betty, as she worked at her books, pretending to listen attentively the while to all his stories.

"I'm not disturbing you, I hope?"

"No, indeed, Mr. Holm. It's very nice of you, I'm sure, to talk to me." She slipped down from her chair, and stroked the back of the big ledger with her slender white hands.

"I've walked a deuce of a way to-day"—he sat down on the sofa and wiped his forehead—"went right out to the cemetery, to lay a wreath on C. H. Pettersen and Company's grave. You've heard of C. Henrik Pettersen, I dare say? Grocery and provision stores over the square there; had it for years and years. First-rate man he was; my best friend."

"Good friends are very precious, Mr. Holm."

"Why, yes, they are, mostly. And C. H. Pettersen and Co. was an uncommon firm, I must say, both for quality and weight. I know there were some mischief-making folk used to say he sold margarine as dairy butter, but that was just pure malice, for the quality was so good I'll swear they couldn't tell the difference. And when they're both alike, what does it matter what you call them?"

"Has he been dead long?"

"Eleven years it is to-day since he handed in his final balance-sheet; I go out every year to lay a wreath on his grave, out of sheer gratitude and affection for his memory."

"You don't often meet with friendship like that."

"You're right there. Ah, one needs to have friends; when you haven't, it's only too easy to get low-spirited—especially now, since I've had this bilious trouble."

"Oh, that must be horrid."

"Horrid, yes, it's the very devil. Only fancy, a man like me, that used to eat and drink whatever I pleased—as far as I could get it, that is—and now that I can get whatever I've a fancy to, I have to live on brown bread and weak tea. You'd think Providence might have managed things better than that, now, wouldn't you?"

"Oh, but I'm sure, if you're careful, you'll soon be all right again. And as long as you're properly looked after——"

"Ah, that's just the trouble, I must say. I've been used to something very different. I dare say you know I've been married twice——"

"Twice? Oh yes, I fancy I did hear about it."

"So you can understand it's a great deal to miss."

"Yes, indeed. Let me see; wasn't your first wife English?"

"Maggie—yes; oh, a charming creature, Miss Rantzau; I wish you could have seen her. The loveliest brown eyes, and hair as black as a raven's wing, and a complexion of milk and roses. And the sweetest disposition; good inside and out she was. Too good, I suppose, for this world as well as for me."

"Your first wife did not live very long?"

"We were only married a year: hardly enough to count, really. It's just a beautiful memory——"

"And how did you come to meet her, Mr. Holm?"

"It was in Birmingham—I was over there on business. I dare say you've noticed I put in an English word now and again in talking; it's all from the time of my first marriage."

"Yes, I have noticed you use foreign words now and again."

"It's all from those days with Maggie. Oh, you should have heard her say: 'I love you, darling.' Lord save us, what a lovely creature she was! I declare I love England myself now, all for Maggie's sake."

"And your son, the engineer, she was his mother?"

"Yes, to be sure. Poor Maggie, it cost her life, that little bit of business."

"And your second wife?"

"She was a Widow Gronlund from Arendal. Ah, that was a queer story. There I was, you see, with little William, Maggie's boy, sorrowful and downcast as a wet umbrella. Of course you'd understand I'd no wish really to go and get married again all at once; I wrote to Skipper Gronlund of Arendal—he was a cousin of mine—and asked if he and his wife would take the boy and look after him. They were willing enough, the more by reason they'd only one child of their own Little Marie, a girl of the same age."

"So they took the boy?"

"Yes. He was there for four years, and then I began to feel the want of him and went up to Arendal to see him. But what do you think happened then? Just as I got to Arendal there came a wire saying Gronlund's ship had gone to the bottom, and that was the end of Gronlund!"

"And then you married her?"

"Exactly. What else could I do? Amalie, Mrs. Gronlund that is, wouldn't give up the boy, and I couldn't tear him away by force, could I? Very well, I said, what must be must, man is but dust, and so we got married."

"Mrs. Gronlund was not altogether young, I suppose?"

"Nothing much to look at, more's the pity, but an excellent housekeeper and a good-hearted soul."

"And so it turned out happily after all?"

"Ay, that it did, but it didn't last long, worse luck. Amalie still kept longing for her Gronlund, and she got kidney disease and went off to join him—and there I was left once again all on my own, and this time with Maggie's boy and Amalie's girl."

"But you were glad to have the children, surely?"

"Well, yes, at times. But I can't help calling to mind the words of the prophet, Children are a blessing of the Lord, but a trial and a tribulation to man. It's true, it's true.... Well, William was going in for engineering, you see, and he was away in Germany at his studies—studying how to spend money, as far as I could see, with a crowd of mighty intelligent artist people he'd got in with. And what do you suppose he's doing now?"

Betty was working at her books again, writing away with all her might in the big ledger, while Holm went on with his story.

"He wants to be a painter—an artist, you'd say, and daubs away great slabs of picture stuff as big as this floor—but Lord save and help us, I wouldn't have the messy things hung up here. I told him he'd much better go into the shop and get an honest living in a decent fashion like his father before him—but no! Too common, if you please, too materialistic. And that's bad enough, but there's worse to it yet. Would you believe it, Miss Betty, he and those artist friends of his have turned Marie's head the same wry fashion, and make her believe she's cut out for an artistic career herself—a born opera singer, they say; and now she carols away up there till people think there's a dentist in the house. Oh, it's the deuce of a mess, I do assure you!"

Betty looked up from her book. "You must have the gift of good humour, Mr. Holm."

"Well, I hope so, I'm sure. Shouldn't like to be one of your doleful sort."

"A kind and hard-working man you've always been, I'm sure. A perfect model of a man."

"Perfect model—me? Lord preserve us, I wouldn't be that for worlds. Can't imagine anything more uninteresting than the perfect model type. No—I've just tried all along to be an ordinary decent man, that finds life one of the best things going. And when things happened to turn particularly nasty—no money, no credit, and that sort of thing—why, I'd just say to myself, 'Come along, my lad, only get to grips with it, and you'll pull through all right.' And then I could always console myself with the thought that when things were looking black, they couldn't get much blacker, so they'd have to brighten up before long."

"Yes, it takes sorrows as well as joys to make a life."

"That's true. But we make them both for ourselves mostly. If you only knew what fun I've got out of life at times; have to hammer out a bit of something lively now and then, you know! Look at us now, for instance, just sitting here talking. Isn't that heaps better than sitting solemnly like two mummies on their blessed pyramids?" And he swung round on his high stool till the screw creaked again.

"Yes, indeed, it's very nice, I'm sure." Betty began putting her books away, Holm walking up and down meanwhile with short, rapid steps. Upstairs, someone was singing to the piano.

"Nice sort of evening we're going to have, by the look of things. House full of blessed amateurs with fiddles and tambourines. Serve them right if they were packed off to a reformatory, the whole——"

"Oh, but surely, Mr. Holm, you needn't be so hard on them. Young people must have a little entertainment now and then—especially when they've a father who can afford it," she added a little wistfully.

"Afford it—h'm. As to that ... if they keep on the way they're going now, I'm not sure I shan't have to give them a bit of a lesson...." He crossed over to the desk, and, spreading out his elbows, looked quizzically at Betty.

"What do you think now—is Knut G. Holm too old to marry again?"

"Really, I'm sure I couldn't say," answered the girl, with a merry laugh. And, slipping past him, she took her jacket and hat.

"Good-night, Mr. Holm."

"Good-night, Miss Betty. I hope I haven't kept you too long with all my talk, but it's such a comfort to feel that there's one place in the house where there's somebody sensible to talk to."

He stood for some time looking after her.

"Not bad—not bad at all. Nice figure—trifle over slender in the upper works, perhaps; looks a bit worried at times; finds it hard to make ends meet, perhaps, poor thing. H'm. But she's a good worker, and that's a fact. Yes, I think this arrangement was a good idea."

Garner came in with the cash-box. "We've shut up outside, Mr. Holm. Was there anything more you wanted this evening?"

"No—no thanks. H'm, I say, that row and goings on upstairs, can you hear it out in the shop?"

"About the same as in here. But it's really beautiful music, Mr. Holm. I slipped out into the passage upstairs a little while back, and they were singing a quartette, but Miss Marie was taking the bass, and going so hard I'm sure they could hear her right up at the fire station."

"I've no doubt they could, Garner. But I'll give them music of another sort, and then—we'll see!" He flung the cash-box into the safe with a clang, and Garner judged it best to disappear without delay.

Outside in the shop he confided to Clasen that the old man was in a roaring paddy about the music upstairs; and the pair of them fell to speculating as to what would happen when he came up.

"Oh, nothing," said Clasen. "Those youngsters they always manage to get round him in the end."

"Might get sick of the whole business and give up the shop—or make it over to us, what?" added Garner, "as his successors," and he waxed enthusiastic over the idea as they strolled along to Syversen's Hotel for a little extra in the way of supper.

Holm was walking up and down by himself in the office, while the music upstairs went on, until the globe on the safe rattled with the sound. He was in a thoroughly bad temper for once. "There! Just as everything was going nicely—and a balance-sheet worth framing! Ha-ha! and only the other day that miserable worm of a bank manager, Hermansen, wouldn't take my paper for £400. Lord, but I'd like to show that fellow one day; make him understand he was a trifle out in his reckoning with the firm of Knut G. Holm. Do a neat little deal to the tune of a few thousand, cash down—something to make him scratch his silly pate. I can just imagine him saying to himself: 'Remarkable man that Knut Holm. Never really had much faith in him before, but now....' Yes, that's what he said a few years back, I remember; hadn't much faith in the business. Well, I must say, things were looking pretty bad at that time. But I'd always reckoned on William's coming into the business; new style, Holm and Son. And now there's an end of all that. No, it doesn't pay to go building castles in the air; it's just card houses that come tumbling down with a crash. Here have I been toiling and moiling all these years, morning till night, building up the business step by step to what it is now. Had to knuckle to that swine of a Hermansen ugh—ugrh—isch! Lying awake at night trying to work out some way of getting over to-morrow, with the bills falling due—and now there's that pack of wastrels sitting up there. 'Poor old man'—that's their style—'quite a decent old chap in many ways, no doubt, but no idea of culture, no sense of lofty ideals; spent his life standing behind a counter and that's about all he's fit for.' Oh, I know the tune when they get on that topic! I've marked it often enough when I'm with them and their precious friends. They'll eat and drink at my expense, and then slap me on the shoulder in their superior way, thinking all the time I'm just an old drudge of a cab horse, and lucky to have the chance of encouraging real Art! Oh, I'll talk to them! It'll be a real treat to give them a proper lesson for once. They shall have it this evening. So on, old boy!"

When Holm walked into the big drawing-room upstairs he was greeted with acclamation. "Hurrah for Mæcenas! hurrah for the patron of Art! Hurrah!"

"Here, Frantz, you're a poet; get up and make a speech in honour of my noble sire."

Frantz Pettersen, a podgy little man with a big fair moustache, lifted his glass.

"Friends and brothers in Art, in the eternal realm of beauty! the halls wherein we live and move are bright and lofty, it is true, and our outlook is wide, unbounded. But let us not therefore forget the simple home of our youthful days, though it be never as poor and dry."

"Dry—what do you mean? It's not dry here, I hope?"

"My mistake. Dark, I should have said. Poor and dark.... Well, my friend, this noble fatherly soul, who a moment ago entered upon us like a vision from another world—a visitor from the lower regions, so to speak (Hear!)—him we acclaim, by all the gods of ancient myth, by the deities of the upper and the nether world—steady, boys—not to speak of this. And you, my fortunate young friend, whose lot it is to claim this exalted soul by the worthy name of father, rejoice with me at his presence among us in this hour. Do not your hearts beat high with thankfulness to the providence that has spared him to you so long? What says the poet (now what does he say, I wonder? Let me see). 'My father was a——' something or other. Anyhow, never mind. To come to the point, we, er—raise our glasses now in honour of this revered paterfamilias whose toil and thingummy in this materialistic world have crowned the work of his accomplished children. Skaal!"

The speech was received with general acclamation.

Holm was taken by surprise, and hardly knew what to say. He could hardly open the campaign at such a moment with a sermon; mechanically he took the glass offered him. But hardly had he touched it with his lips than he asked in astonishment:

"When—where on earth did you get hold of that Madeira? Let me look at the bottle. I thought as much. Tar and feather me, if they haven't gone and snaffled my '52 Madeira! Six bottles that I'd been keeping for my jubilee in the business—all gone, I suppose. Nice children, I must say!"

He sat down in an arm-chair, fanning himself with a handkerchief.

"These golden drops from the cellars of our revered friend and patron——" began Frantz sententiously.

"Oh, stop that nonsense, do," growled Holm. And, snatching up a bottle of the old Madeira, he took it into the dining-room and hid it behind the sofa.

"Dearest, darling papa, you're not going to be bad-tempered now, are you?" whispered Marie, throwing her arms around his neck.

"I'm not bad-tempered—I'm angry."

"Oh, but you mustn't. Why, what is there to be angry about?"

Holm was dumbfounded. Nothing to be angry about indeed. He ought perhaps to say thank you to these young rascals for allowing him to stay up with them?

"Shall I sing to you, papa?"

"Sing! no, thank you. I'd rather not."

"But what's the matter? What's it all about?"

"What's the matter—good heavens, why, my '52 Madeira, isn't that enough?"

"Oh, is that all? I'm sure it couldn't have been put to better use. You ought to have heard Frantz Pettersen making up things on the spur of the moment; it was simply lovely."

She had clambered up on his knee, with her arms round his neck; the others were still in the drawing-room.

"Lovely, was it, little one?" said Holm in a somewhat gentler voice.

"Yes, papa—oh, I don't know when I've enjoyed myself so much as this evening. And only fancy, Hilmar Strom, the composer—there, you can see, the tall thin man in glasses—he said I had a beautiful voice—beautiful!"

"Don't you believe it, my child."

"What—when a great artist like that says so? Oh, I was so happy—and now you come and...." She stood up and put her handkerchief to her eyes. Just then William came in.

"Hullo, what's the matter? What are you crying for?"

"Papa—papa says I'm not to believe what Hilmar Strom said—that I'd a beautiful voice. Ugh—it's always like that at home—it's miserable." She leaned over in a corner of the sofa, hiding her face in her hands.

"Yes, you're right. Oh, we shall have pleasant memories of home to go out into the world with." And William stalked off in dudgeon.

Holm sat there like a criminal, at a loss what to make of it all. Oh, these young folk! They always seemed to manage to turn the tables on him somehow. He couldn't even get properly angry now.

And Marie—he was always helpless where she was concerned. He was sorry now he had not brought her up differently. But he had never said an unkind word to her—how could he, to a sweet little thing like that? Only last year she had nursed him herself for three weeks, when he was at death's door with inflammation of the lungs; that girl, that girl! He went over to the sofa and put his arms round her.

"There, there, little one, it's not so bad as all that."

"Hu—hu—hu—I didn't know—I didn't know about the old Madeira. It was me—hu—hu—that brought it up."

"Well, well, never mind about the Madeira, child. We can get some more; only don't cry now."

She turned towards him.

"Then you're not angry with me any more, papa?" "No, no, child. There—now go in and enjoy yourself again."

"Oh, but it's so horrid, papa—I'm sure the others must have noticed us."

Just then William came in and reported that the scene had made a painful impression on the guests; Strom, the composer, and Berg, the sculptor, were for going off at once, and were only with difficulty persuaded to stay.

Holm did not know what to say to this; the transition from accuser to accused was too sudden.

"Couldn't you make us some punch, father; it would sort of set things right again if you were to come marching in yourself with a big bowl of punch."

"Punch? H'm—well—I could, of course, but then ..."

"Oh yes, that lovely punch, papa, you know, with champagne and hock and curaçao in—and all the rest of it."

"Well, I suppose I must. Now that I have once got into all this—this artist business, why ..." And off he went for the key of the cellar.

No sooner was he out of the room than William burst out laughing.

"Oh, Marie, you are the most irresistible little devil that ever lived." And he waltzed her round and round.

"Well, it wanted some doing to-day, William, I can tell you. I was half afraid I shouldn't manage it after all. As it was, I had to cry before he'd come round."

"First-rate. Woman's tears are the finest weapon ever invented—and punch on top of all—bravo! Come along, we must go and prepare the rest of the band for what's coming."

Out in the kitchen, Holm was busy over a punch bowl, solemnly stirring the brew and dropping in slices of lemon one by one.

"I am an old fool, I know, to let them get round me as they do. H'm. And the longer I leave it, the worse it will be. We shall have to come to a proper understanding some time; it can't go on like this...."

"Papa, are you nearly ready?"

"Coming, coming, dear, in a minute. Open the door, there's a good girl."

The entry of the host with a bowl of punch was the signal for a general demonstration of delight. Frantz Pettersen promptly sat down at the piano and started off, the rest of the party accompanying with anything they could lay hands on. One had a pair of fire tongs, one beat a brass tray, one rang a couple of glasses against each other, and so on. The words were something like this:

"Our host he is a lasting joy,
A perfect Pa for girl and boy,
A perfect Pa, hurray, hurrah,
Hurrah, hurrip, hurroo!

He stands with head so meekly bowed,
Withal a man of whom we're proud,
We're proud of you, hurrah, hurroo,
Hurrah, hurrip, hurray!

All honour to the grocery trade
Whereby his fortune it was made,
And a nice one too, hurrah, hurroo,
Hurrah, hurrip, hurray!

It must have been a decent pile
For his cellar's stocked in splendid style,
Put it away, hurrah, hurray,
Hurrah, hurrip, hurroo!

Though somebody must have made, we fear, a
Sad mistake with that Madeira,
Maderiah, hurray, hurrah,
Hurrah, hurrip, hurroo!

But now he casts all care away
And gladly joins our circle gay.
Our circle gay, hurrah, hurray,
Hurrah, hurrip, hurroo!

The flowing bowl he brings us here,
So drink his health with a hearty cheer,
Hip, hip, hurrah, hurrip,
Hurrah, hurrip, hurra-a-ay!"

Holm did not know whether to laugh or cry at this exhibition, but chose the former; after all, it might be worth while to see how far they would go. He made speech after speech, and the company shouted in delight. Graarud, the literary critic of the People's Guardian, declared that Knut Holm was a credit to the merchant citizens of his country, and as fine a specimen of the type as was to be found.

Listad, another literary man, who edited a paper himself, was making love to Marie, but with little apparent success. He was a cadaverous-looking personage, but an idealist, and earnest in the cause of universal peace.

The speeches grew more and more exalted in tone as the evening went on. Pettersen invited the company to drink to the "coming dawn of Art in the land—a dawn that would soon appear when once the daughter of the house raised her melodious voice to ring o'er hill and dale." This was too much for Holm; he slipped into the hall and, putting on an overcoat, went out to get some fresh air.

It was a fine, starlight, frosty night, the river flowed broad and smooth and dark between the piers, the gas lamps on either side shedding long streaks of light across the silent water.

He swung round the corner, but—heavens, who was that sitting so quietly on the steps in front of the shop? He went up, and found a twelve-year-old boy leaning against the wall.

"Why, little man, what's the matter? What are you sitting out here for in the cold?"

The lad rose hurriedly to his feet and made as if to run away.

"No, here, wait a bit, son; there's nothing to be afraid of." Holm took the boy's hand, and looked into a pale childish face with deep dark eyes, and framed in a tangle of fair hair.

"I was only listening," he sobbed.... "The music upstairs there...."

"You're fond of music, then?"

"Yes; I always go out in the evening, when nobody can see, and sit outside where I know there's somebody that plays. And Holm's up there, they've got the loveliest piano."

"Would you like to learn to play yourself?"

The boy looked up at him in astonishment.

"Me?"

"Yes, you. If you're so fond of music, wouldn't you like to learn to play?"

"I've got to help mother at home, because father's dead. And when I'm big enough I'm going to be a sailor. Please, I must go home now."

"Mother getting anxious about you, eh?"

"No, she knows where I go of an evening; she doesn't mind."

"Well, what's your name, anyhow?"

"Hans Martinsen."

"Here you are, then, Hans, here's two shillings for you."

"Oh, er—that for me! I could go to heaps of concerts.... Thank you ever so much."

He clasped the outstretched hand in both his little fists, and looked up with beaming eyes.

"And now look here, little Hans. At eleven o'clock to-morrow morning you come round and ask for me. Here in the shop."

"But, are you—are you Mr. Holm, then?" He loosed the hand.

"Well, and what then? That's nothing to be afraid of, is it, little Hans? But now, listen to me. I want you to come round here to-morrow morning, as I said. And perhaps then we'll have some real nice music for you. And you can bring your mother too if you like."

"Music—to-morrow—oh, that will be lovely. And won't mother be pleased!"

"And now run along home, like a good boy, and get warm. You've been sitting here in the cold too long already. Good-night."

"Good-night, good-night!"

Holm watched the little figure hurrying with swift little legs across the bridge, till it disappeared into the dark on the farther side.

He stood for some time deep in thought. The dawn of Art—what was it Pettersen had said? What if he, Holm, the despised materialist, were to be the first to discover the dawn here! It was a strange coincidence, anyway. "And such strange, deep eyes the little fellow had; it went to my heart when his little hands took hold of mine.... Ay, little lad, you're one of God's flowers, I can see. And you shan't be left to perish of cold in this world as long as my name's Knut Holm."

III
BRAMSEN

On the morning after the party, Holm sent down for Paal Abrahamsen or "Bramsen" as he was generally called. Holm and Bramsen had known each other from childhood; they had gone to the same poor school, and had grown up together. After their confirmation, Bramsen had gone to sea, while Holm had got a place in a shop, and commenced his mercantile career. But he never forgot his old friend, and when in course of time he had established a business of his own, he made Bramsen his warehouseman and clerk on the quay, where he now held a position of trust as Holm's right-hand man. He was a short, bandy-legged man, with a humorous face set in a frame of shaggy whiskers, and a remarkably mobile play of feature. Agile as a cat, he could walk on his hands as easily as others on their feet, and, despite his fifty-five years, he turned out regularly on Contrition Day to compete with the boys for prizes in the park; and he was a hard man to beat!

"Paal he can never be serious," complained Andrine, his wife, who was something of a melancholy character herself, and constantly endeavouring to drag him along to various meetings and assemblies which Paal as regularly evaded on some pretext or other.

Holm's relations with his old comrade and subordinate were of a curious character. Down at the quay, when they were alone, they addressed each other in familiar terms, as equals; but in public, Bramsen was always the respectful employee, observing all formalities towards his master.

When the message came down from the office that Mr. Holm would be coming down to the waterside at 7.30 in the morning to see him, Bramsen turned thoughtful.

They had held a similar conference once, some years before, when the firm of Knut G. Holm looked like going to ruin—Heaven send it was not something of the same sort now!

Holm looked irritable and out of sorts. "Bramsen," he said, "I'm sick and tired of the whole blessed business."

Bramsen scratched his chin meditatively, and laid his head on one side. "H'm," he observed after a pause. "More trouble with that there guinea-pig up at the bank, fussing about bills and that sort?"

"No, no, nothing to do with that. We're all right as far as money goes."

"All right, eh? But you're put out about something, that's plain to see. Liver out of order, perhaps?"

"Oh no!"

"Why, then, there's nothing else that I can see."

"It's those wretched youngsters of mine."

"Ho, is that all?"

"All! As if it wasn't enough! I tell you they're going stark mad, the pair of them."

"Seems to me they've been that way a long time now."

"Oh, it's all very well to talk like that. But really, it's getting beyond all bearing. William's taken it into his head to go and be a painter."

"Well, and not a bad thing, either, as long as he does the work decently, with plenty of driers and not too much oil in the mixing. Look at Erlandsen up the river, he's made a good thing out of it."

"Oh, not that sort of painting. It's an artist, I mean. Painting pictures and things."

"Pictures!" Bramsen looked dumbfounded. "Painting pictures? Well, blister me if I ever heard the like. Wait a bit, though—there was Olsen, the verger; he'd a boy, I remember, a slip of a fellow with gold spectacles and consumption, he used to mess about with that sort of thing. But he never made a living out of it—didn't live long, anyway."

"But that's not the worst of it, Bramsen. There's Marie—she wants to be a singer."

Bramsen almost fell off the sugar-box on which he was seated.

"Singer—what! Singing for money, d'you mean? Going round with a hat?"

"Something very much like it, anyway—only it'll be my money that goes into the hat. What are we to do about it, eh?"

"H'm ... Couldn't you pack the boy off to sea? And the young lady—send her to a school to do needlework and such like?"

"Oh, what's the good of talking like that? No, my dear man, young people nowadays don't let themselves be sent anywhere that way. There's the pair of them, they simply laugh at us."

Holm walked back to the office deep in thought. On his return, he found Hans Martinsen, and Berg, the organist, awaiting him.

Bramsen remained seated on his sugar-box and murmured to himself: "Well, it's a nice apple-pie for Knut Holm, that it is. Lord, but they children can be the very devil."

A little later, Garner came down to the quay, and found Bramsen still meditating on his box.

"What's wrong with the old man to-day, Bramsen? He looks as if he was going in for the deaf-and-dumb school; there's no getting a word out of him."

Bramsen sat for quite a while without answering. Then at last he said solemnly:

"It's my humble opinion, and that's none so humble after all, that there's a deal of what you might call contrapasts in this here world."

"Meaning to say?"

"It's plain enough. Folk that's got a retipation, they does all they can to lose it, and they that hasn't, why—there's no understanding them till they've got one."

Garner was still in the dark as to whither all this wisdom tended, and began absently slitting up a coffee-sack.

"Look you, Garner," Bramsen went on. "It's this way with the women: they've each their station here in life, as by the Lord appointed. Some gets married, and some goes school-teaching, or out in service, and such-like—and all that sort, they stick to their retipation; but the woman that goes about singing for money in a hat, her retipation's like a broken window—it's out and gone to bits and done with."

Garner laughed and looked inquiringly at the other.

"Now, do you understand, Garner, what's the trouble with Holm?"

"Oh, so that's what you're getting at, is it? Miss Holm wants to go on the stage."

"Singing, my boy; singing for money, and if so be that was to happen to any daughter of mine, I'd give her a dose of something to make her lose her voice—ay, if it was rat poison, I would."

It was a regular thing for Garner and Bramsen to have a comfortable chat down at the waterside, when the old sailor would generally relate some of his experiences at sea. These yarns especially delighted Garner, who came of a peasant stock himself, and knew nothing of the sea or foreign parts until he came to the town. He tried now to open up the subject again.

"Ever been in the Arctic, Bramsen?"

"Have I? Why, I should think so. I was up that way in '76, on a whaling trip with Svend Foya."

It was a habit of Bramsen's at the beginning of a story to make some attempt at a literary style, but he invariably dropped it as he went on.

"Dangerous business, isn't it?"

"Why, that's as you take it or as you make it. If one of the brutes gets your boat with a flick of his tail, there's an end of you, of course. I remember once we were after a big fellow; had a shot at him and got in just aft of the spout-holes. And then, take my word for it, he led us a dance. Off he went, full-speed ahead, and us full speed astern, but blister me if he didn't win the tug-of-war and sail off with us at nineteen knots, till we were cutting along like a torpedo boat. He wasn't winded, ye see, for his blowpipe was intact, and his gear below-decks sound and ship-shape. But at last we got him fairly run down, and settled him with a straight one through the heart."

"A whale's heart must be pretty big?"

"Why, yes, he's what you might call a large-hearted beast. About the size of a middling chest o' drawers or a chiffonier."

"Rough on a whale, then, if he got heart disease," laughed Garner.

"Why, as to that, I suppose it would be in proportion, as you might say. But he's built pretty well to scale in the other parts as well, with his main arteries about as big round as a chimney."

"I wonder you didn't go up with Nansen to the Pole."

"And what for, I'd like to know? Messing about among a lot of nasty Eskimos; no, thankye, I'd a better use for my time." And Bramsen went on again with his whaling yarns for a spell, until Garner found it was time to get back to the shop.

Outside the store shed sat a row of urchins fishing from the edge of the quay. Bramsen was a popular character among the waterside boys; he would chat and fish with them at off-times, or help them in the manufacture of a patent "knock-out" bait, from a recipe of his own, the chief ingredients being flour and spirits. There was always a shout of delight when the small fish appeared at the surface, belly upwards. But to-day the knock-out drops appeared to fail of their effect, whether because the fish had grown used to French brandy, or for some other reason. Bramsen soon left the boys to their own devices, and went back into the shed. Here, to his astonishment, he found Amanda, his daughter and only child, weeping in a corner.

Amanda was about fifteen, a lanky slip of a girl, with her hair in a thick plait down her back, twinkling dark brown eyes, and a bright, pleasant face.

"Saints and sea-serpents—you here, child? What's amiss now?"

"Mother—mother wants us to go to meeting this evening, and you promised we should go to the theatre and see Monkey Tricks, and they say it's the funniest piece."

Bramsen grew suddenly thoughtful. What if the child were to go getting ideas into her head, like Miss Holm, and want to go about singing with a hat—h'm, perhaps after all it might be as well to take her to the meeting with Andrine.

But the mere suggestion sent Amanda off into a fresh burst of tears.

"There, there, child, I'll take you to the theatre, then, but on one condition."

Amanda looked up expectantly. "Yes?"

"You're never to think of singing for money yourself, or going on the stage, or anything like that. You understand?"

The girl had no idea of what was in his mind, and answered mechanically, "No, father—and you'll take me to see Monkey Tricks after all?"

"All right! but don't let your mother know, that's all."

Amanda was out of the door like an arrow, and hurried home at full speed. That evening she and her father sat up in the gallery, thoroughly enjoying themselves. Bramsen, it must be confessed, had taken the title literally, and waited expectantly all through the piece for the monkey to appear, and was disappointed in consequence, but seeing Amanda so delighted with the play as it was, he said nothing about it. Had he been alone he would have demanded his money back; after all, it was rank swindling to advertise a piece as Monkey Tricks, when there wasn't a monkey.

Meanwhile, Andrine had gone to the meeting, and waited patiently for the others to appear—they had promised to come on after. Here, however, she was disappointed, as usual.

When the backsliders came home, they found her deploring the vanity of this world, the imperfections of our mortal life, and the weakness of human clay against the powers of evil.

Bramsen and Amanda let her go on, as they always did, exchanging glances the while; occasionally, when her back was turned, Bramsen would make the most ludicrous faces, until Amanda had to go out into the kitchen and laugh.

Bramsen was fond of his wife; she was indeed so good-hearted and unselfish that no one could help it; while Amanda, for her part, respected her mother as the only one who could keep her in order. And indeed it was needed, "with a father that never so much as thought of punishing the child."

Bramsen himself had never been thrashed in his life, except by his comrades as a boy, and had always conscientiously paid back in full. He had had no experience of the chastening rod, and could not conceive that anything of the sort was needed for Amanda. Consequently, the relation between father and daughter was of the nature of an alliance as between friends, and as the years went on, the pair of them were constantly combining forces to outwit Andrine.

Bramsen had no idea of the value of money, or its proper use and application, wherefore Andrine had, in course of time, taken over charge of the family finances, and kept the savings-bank book,—a treasure which Bramsen himself was allowed to view on rare occasions, and then only from the outside, its contents being quite literally a closed book to him. Amanda and he would often put their heads together and fall to guessing how much there might be in the book, "taking it roughly like," but the riddle remained unsolved.

Every month Bramsen brought home his pay and delivered it dutifully into Andrine's hands; he made no mention, however, of the ten-shilling rise that had been given him, but spent the money on little extras and outings for himself and Amanda, whom he found it hard to refuse at any time.

A month before, it had been her great wish to have an album "to write poetry in"; all the other girls in her class had one, and she simply couldn't be the only one without. Bramsen could not understand what pleasure there was to be got out of such an article; much better to get a song book with printed words and have done with it. But Amanda scorned the suggestion, and the album was duly bought. She had got two entries in it already, one from Verger Klemmeken of Strandvik, an old friend of her father's, who wrote in big straggling letters:

"Whene'er these humble lines you see,
I pray that you'll remember me."

and one from Miss Tobiesen, an old lady at the infirmary, who had been engaged seven times, and therefore judged it appropriate to quote:

"'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all."

Amanda then insisted that her father should contribute something, but Bramsen declared in the first place that the album was much too fine a thing for his clumsy fist, and furthermore, that he couldn't hit on anything to write. Amanda, however, gave him no peace till he consented, and at last, after much effort, the worthy man achieved the following gem:

"I, Amanda's only father,
Love her very much but rather
Fear she causes lots of bother
To her wise and loving mother."

This elegant composition was unfortunately not appreciated by Amanda, who, to tell the truth, was highly displeased. Fancy writing such a thing in her book—why, the whole class would laugh at her. Bramsen was obliged to scratch it out, but in so doing, scratched a hole in the paper, leaving no alternative but to take out the page altogether, much to Amanda's disgust.

Bramsen's highest ambition in life was to be master of a steamboat; not one of the big vessels that go as far as China, say, or Copenhagen—that, he realised, was out of the question, in view of his large contempt for examinations, mate's certificates and book-learning generally. The goal of his desire, the aim of all his dearest dreams, was a tugboat, a smart little devil of a craft with a proper wheel-house amidships and booms and hawsers aft.

A grand life it would be, to go fussing about up and down the fjord, meeting old acquaintances among the fishermen and pilots—yo, heave ho, my lads! He had often suggested to Andrine that the contents of the savings-bank book might be devoted to the purchase of a tug, but Andrine would cross herself piously, and urge him to combat all temptation and evil inspirations of the sort. Bramsen could not see anything desperately evil in the idea himself; he found it more depressing to think that he should spend the remainder of his days in the stuffy atmosphere of the warehouse on the quay. Was it reasonable, now, for a man like himself to be planted, like a geranium in a flower-pot, among sugar-boxes, flour-sacks, and store-keeping trash?

"Ay, life's a queer old tangle sometimes," murmured Bramsen to himself, "and we've got to make the best of it, I suppose." And he cast a longing glance through the doorway of the shed, at Johnsen, of the tug Rap, steaming down the fjord with his tow.

IV
HERMANSEN OF THE BANK

Hermansen was manager of the local bank. He and Knut Holm had never been friends, and though outwardly their relations were to all seeming amicable enough, the attitude of each toward the other was really one of armed neutrality.

The banker was in all things cold, precise and dignified, with a military stiffness of bearing, and devoid of all softer sentiment or feeling.

Entrenched behind his counter at the bank, he would glance frigidly at any bill presented, and if the security appeared to him insufficient, he would hand it back with the remark: "We have no money to-day," though the coffers might be full to bursting.

He was an old bachelor, and Holm was wont to declare that if Hermansen, at the Creation, had been set in Adam's place in the Garden of Eden and found himself alone with Eve, he would have declined to discount any promissory notes of hers, and our planet in consequence have been as uninhabited as the moon.

Hermansen was really quite a good-looking man; his tall, slender figure in tight-fitting coat, his iron-grey hair brushed a little forward on either side of his clean-shaven face, the narrow, close-set lips, combined to give him an appearance of distinction fitted for a member of the diplomatic corps.

He was a smart man of business, not only in the affairs of the bank, but also for his own account. Whenever an opportunity occurred of making money, whether by purchase of real property, bankrupt stock or other means, he was always ready to step in at the most favourable moment. He was generally considered one of the richest men in the town, and could afford to speculate at long sight; he was too wise, however, to give any grounds for the suspicion that he took undue advantage of his position. But, as Holm would say, "he's a devilish sharp nose, all the same; he can smell a coming failure years before the man himself has ever thought of it." And it was Holm's great ambition to get the better of him and make the banker burn his fingers in a way he should remember. But it was no easy matter, and up to now all his attempts in that direction had recoiled upon himself.

There was that affair of the building site behind the Town Hall, for instance; Holm's temper went up to boiling point even now whenever he thought of it.

Hermansen, he knew, had had an eye on the place for years, and Holm was sure that by snapping it up himself he would be able to make a few hundred pounds by selling it again to his rival. Accordingly, when the site was put up for auction, he bought it in himself under the very nose of the banker, and gladly paid five hundred for it, though he knew four hundred would have been nearer the mark.

On the day following the sale he encountered Hermansen in the street.

"Ah, Mr. Holm, so you were left with that site yesterday?"

Aha, thought Holm, he's working up to it already.

"Why, yes, I thought I'd take it. Fine bit of ground, you know, splendid situation—but I'm open to sell, at a reasonable advance, of course."

"Thanks very much—but I'm not a buyer myself. By the way, I suppose you know there's a condition attached to the building: no windows to overlook the Town Hall. That means the frontage will have to be in the little back street behind, on the shady side. H'm, lowers the value of the property, of course. Still, taking it all round, I should say it was quite a fair deal."

Holm stood looking helplessly after him; he had had no idea of any such condition attached, and the thought of his oversight made him furious for months after. The site lay there vacant to this day, a piece of waste ground, with a big open ditch running through it. Vindt, the stockbroker, had named it "Holm's Canal," after a larger and more celebrated piece of water with which Knut Holm had nothing to do. And some ill-disposed person had written to the local paper, complaining of the "stink" which arose from the water in question.

Holm found the office considerably pleasanter and more comfortable since Miss Betty's installation. An outward and visible sign of the change was the vase of fresh flowers which she placed on the desk each morning, showing that even a dusty office might be made to look cheerful and nice.

Already the two of them chatted together as if they had known each other for years, and the relations between master and employee grew more and more cordial.

Holm, of course, was always the one to open conversation; he talked, indeed, at times to such an extent that Betty was obliged to beg him to stop, as she could not get on with her work. This generally led to a pause of a quarter of an hour or so, during which Holm would sit watching her over his glasses while she entered up from daybook to ledger with a certain careless ease. Wonderful, thought Holm to himself, how attractive a fair-haired girl can look when she's dark eyebrows and eyelashes, and those blue eyes. Pity she always keeps her mouth tight shut, and hides her lovely teeth.

He sat lost in contemplation, watching her so intently that she flushed right up to her fair head.

"There's the telephone, Mr. Holm," she said desperately, at last, by way of diverting his attention.

"Thanks very much, but I never use the telephone myself. I don't care to stand there like a fool talking down a tube, and likely as not with half a dozen people listening all over the place. No, thank you, I don't think my special brand of eloquence is suited to the telephone service."

Holm always refused to speak to people on the telephone, possibly because he knew that he often said a good deal without reflection and did not care to have witnesses to it, afterwards. Anyhow, he regarded the telephone as one of the plagues of modern times. "If the devil had offered a prize," he would say, "for the best instrument of bother and annoyance to mankind, that fellow Edison should have got it."

The telephone rang, and Betty went to answer it.

"It's Nilson, the broker, wants to speak to you."

"Ask what it is."

"He says the big Spanish ship that came in the other day with a cargo of salt for Hoeg's is to be sold by auction for bottoming, and he thinks it's to be had at a bargain."

"Right! thanks very much. I'll think about it."

Holm brightened up at the prospect of a deal, and forgot all about Betty, blue eyes, dark lashes, fair hair and all.

"Garner, get hold of Bramsen sharp as ever you can, and tell him to go on board that Spaniard at Hoeg's wharf, and have a thorough look round."

A few minutes later Bramsen himself appeared, breathless with haste.

"I've been on board already, Mr. Holm, pretty near every evening. They've a nigger cook that plays all sorts of dance tunes on a bit of a clay warbler he's got; it's really worth hearing...."

"Yes, yes, but the vessel herself. Is she any good, do you know?"

"Well, not much, I take it, though it doesn't show, perhaps. I talked to the carpenter, and he said her bottom was as full of holes as a rusty sieve; it's only the paint that keeps her afloat. He showed me a queer thing too, that carpenter; I've never seen anything like it."

"What sort of a thing?"

"It was a magic cow, he said, got it in Pensacola. You just wind it up, and it walks along the deck, and lowers its head and says, 'Moo-oh!'"

"What about the upper works?"

"Well, I didn't see the works. But the upper part's just brown hide, stuffed, I suppose."

"Nonsense, man; it's the ship I mean."

"Oh yes—well, she's smart enough to look at, with lashings of paint and gilding and brass fittings everywhere—the Spanish owner's no fool, I'll be bound. Bottoming, indeed; I don't believe a word of it."

"What do you mean?"

"Mean! why,"—Bramsen lowered his voice—"it's just a fake, if you ask me, to make folk think they've got an easy bargain."

"Anyone else been on board looking round?"

"Yes. Skipper Heil was there all day yesterday."

"Heil? Wasn't he skipper of Hermansen's Valkyrie?"

"That's it! And I'm pretty sure 'twas Hermansen sent him down to look."

"Bramsen, listen to me. Not a word to a soul of what you know about the ship; you've got to be dumb as a doorpost. If anyone asks, you can tell them in confidence that I sent you to look over her, and not a word more, you understand?"

"Right you are, Mr. Holm. But you're not thinking of going in for the business yourself?"

"You leave that to me."

"Very good, Mr. Holm."

When Bramsen was gone, Holm strode up and down the office deep in thought.

"I wonder, now, if we couldn't manage to nail old Hermansen there. H'm. It's risky, but I must have a try at it all the same."

He put on his hat, and continued his sentry-go up and down, with his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat. Already he saw in his mind's eye the Spaniard hauled up to the repair shops, and plate after plate taken out of her bottom, till only the superstructure remained. And finally, he himself, as representative of the concern, would go up to the bank and present a bill for the repairs—a bill running into three—four—five figures!

He fairly tingled at the thought of that bill. Seven-sixteenth-inch plates, re-riveting, frame-pieces and all the various items Lloyds could hit upon as needful.

It was no easy matter to work out a plan of operations on the spur of the moment. But there was no time to be lost. It was Wednesday already, and the ship was to be put up for auction on the Friday.

First of all, he must go on board himself, openly, as a prospective buyer. This, he knew, would be at once reported to Hermansen, who would have his intelligence department at work.

On Thursday afternoon, then, Holm boarded the Spaniard accordingly, and went over the vessel thoroughly in the hope that Hermansen would get a report that he, Holm, was keenly interested.

Early Friday morning he went down again, and was climbing up the ladder on the port side, but on glancing over the bulwarks he perceived the clean-shaven face of the banker, who was just coming on board from the opposite side.

Holm's first impulse was to bundle off again quickly, but in stepping down, he managed to tread on Bramsen's fingers, eliciting a howl which brought the whole crew hurrying along to see what was the matter. There was nothing for it now but to go on board, which he did, nodding in the friendliest fashion to Hermansen as he came up.

"We're competitors, then, it seems," said the banker politely.

"I think not," said Holm seriously. "She's very badly built, and I don't feel like going in for it myself."

"Yes? I dare say," answered the banker, with a sidelong glance at Holm, who appeared to be scrutinising the upper rigging.

"The fore and aft bulkheads are shaky too," said Holm, well knowing that these were as good as could be. Indeed, had the rest been up to the same standard, the vessel would have been worth buying.

Hermansen walked forward, and Holm went aft. On completing the round, they came face to face once more.

"Bottom's not up to much, from what I hear," remarked Holm casually, as he climbed over the rail on his way down.

"Very possible—very possible." There was a slight vibration in the banker's voice as he spoke, and Holm judged that things were going to be as he wished.

The auction was fixed for one o'clock, and Holm was there punctually to the moment. Hermansen was nowhere to be seen. "Funny," thought Holm to himself. "I hope to goodness he hasn't smelt a rat."

The conditions of sale were read; the bidding to be understood as in agreement therewith.

At last the banker appeared, and sat down unobtrusively in a corner. His presence always made itself felt in any gathering, as imparting a certain solemnity to the occasion. Holm, who had been chatting gaily with the magistrate and Advocate Schneider, sat down quietly.

"Well, gentlemen, to business. The frigate, Don Almariva, is offered for sale to the highest bidder, subject to the conditions just read. What offers?"

"2000," said Holm. A long pause followed.

"2000 offered, 2000. Any advance on 2000.... Come, gentlemen...."

Holm began to feel uneasy.

"2050." It was the banker's sonorous voice.

"2200," snapped out Holm, on the instant.

"2250," from the corner, a little more promptly than before.

"2400," Holm was there again at once.

Matters were getting critical now: Holm sat looking steadily in front of him, not daring to look round. The minutes were uncomfortably long, he felt as if he were on a switchback, or in the throes of approaching sea-sickness.

"2400—two thousand four hundred pounds offered, gentlemen. Any advance on 2400? 2400, going——"

Holm was on the verge of apoplexy now. What if he should have to present that bill for repairs to himself, after all?

Skipper Heil moved over to Hermansen and whispered in his ear. All were turned towards the pair—all save Holm, who sat as before, stiff as a statue in his place, looking rigidly before him.

The auctioneer stood with his hammer raised, his eyes on the banker in his corner.

"Going—going——"

"2500," said the banker. At last!

Holm gave a start as if something had pricked him behind, and looked across with a curious expression at Hermansen, who sat as impassive as ever.

The hammer fell. Holm went across to the banker, raised his hat and bowed. "Congratulations, my dear sir; the vessel's yours. A little faulty in the bottom, as I mentioned before, but still, taking it all round, I should say it was quite a fair deal!"

Holm went out into the street, and, meeting Bramsen, who had been present out of curiosity, took him by the shoulders and shook him. "Bramsen, my boy, I've got him this time. Hermansen's let himself in for it with a vengeance!"

"Lord, Mr. Holm, but you gave me a fright before it was over. I don't believe I've ever been in such a tremble all my sinful life—unless it was the time I jumped across old Weismann's bull."

"Weismann's bull? What was that?"

"Why, it was one day I was standing outside the warehouse as innocent as a babe unborn, filling up a herring barrel, and before I knew where I was there was a great beast of a bull rushing down on me at full gallop. They'd been taking him down to the slaughter-house, and he'd broke away. Well, I couldn't get into the barrel, seeing it was more than half full as it was, and there wasn't time to get across to the sheds; the brute's horns were right on top of me, like a huge great pitchfork, and I reckoned Paal Abrahamsen's days were numbered. And then suddenly I got a revelation. I took a one—two—three, hop and a jump, and just as the beast thought he'd got me on the nail, up I went with an elegant somersault and landed clean astride of him, as neat as a—as an equidestrian statue."

"But how did you get down again?"

"Why, that was as easy as winking, seeing he flung me off and down Mrs. Brekke's cellar stairs, so I felt it a fortnight after."

On his way down to the office, Holm met a number of people who were all anxious to know who had bought the Spaniard. Holm was at no pains to uphold Don Almariva's reputation. When Nilsen the broker came up to congratulate him on his supposed purchase, he exclaimed: "Not me, my lad! Why, she's full of holes as a rusty sieve." And he walked off, singing:

"He needs be something more than bold,
Who'd fill his purse with Spanish gold."

Altogether, it was a red-letter day for Knut Holm. And on entering the office he confided to Betty that he had paid Banker Hermansen in full for that matter of the building site. He told her, also, how he and the banker had been secretly at war for years past, confessing frankly that up to now the honours had been with the other side.

It was Hermansen who had hindered his election to the Town Council, and possibly afterwards to parliament; all along he had barred his way—until now. And to-day, at last, the wind had changed, he had gained his first victory; now perhaps the banker's fortunes would begin to wane, in the town and farther afield—for he was a man of some influence in the country generally.

Holm stood at first bent slightly over the desk, but as he talked, and his enthusiasm increased, he drew himself up, a figure of such power and energy that Betty felt the banker would need to be well equipped indeed to outdo him. She grew more and more interested as he went on, following him with her eyes, until he came over to her and said: "I don't mind telling you, Miss Betty, it's not only Banker Hermansen, but the whole pack of them in the town here, that shrugged their shoulders and laughed behind my back at everything I did.

"Yes, and I've felt it, too, you may be sure, though I didn't show it. I've been cheerful and easy-going all along, and, thanks to that, I can say I've done two things at least: I've pleased my friends and vexed my enemies!

"And then the children upstairs, they've never really understood me; just looked on me as a sort of automatic machine for laying golden eggs. Lord, but I'd like to put their nose out of joint one day, the whole lot of them—make them take off their hats and look up to see where Knut G. Holm had got to."

He tried to take her hand, but she drew it back sharply, and with a blush retreated behind the shelter of her books.

"You think I'm a queer sort, don't you?"

"Not that, Mr. Holm. I was thinking you're a strong man. I've always longed to meet men that were not afraid to face the real hard things of life."

"You're right in that; one doesn't often find a man who's ready to risk anything really for his own convictions. It's easy enough to get into one's shell and rub along comfortably in flannel and carpet slippers, to shout with the crowd and agree politely to all that's said, be generally amiable and popular accordingly—but it's too cramped and stifling for me. I must have room to breathe, if I have to get out in the cold to do it."

He strode through into the shop, and she heard him talking to Garner about having the whole of the premises altered now, lighter and brighter, with big plate-glass windows, and the floor sunk to make it loftier.

Betty sat for a long while thinking deeply over what Holm had said. Several times she turned to her books, but only to fall back into the same train of thought; somehow it was impossible to work to-day.

A strange man, he was, indeed, and she did not quite like his being so confidential towards her. But an honest heart, of that she felt sure, and a man one could not help liking and helping as far as one could. Holm came into the office a little while after, and found it empty. Betty had gone. He stood awhile by her desk, then picked up the glass with the yellow roses in, and smelt them.

"Women, women"—he looked at the roses—"these little trifles are the weapons that count. H'm. Now would it be so strange after all if I did marry again? There's not much comfort to be looked for upstairs as things are now—and she's a clever girl as well as pretty. The youngsters, of course, would make no end of fuss, but I'd have to put up with that."

Just then William came in, smoking a cigarette.

"Wanted to speak to you, father."

"Right you are, my boy! speak away!"

"Well, it's like this. Marie and I, we can't go on as we have been doing lately."

Holm turned quickly. "You mean to say you're going to turn over a new leaf?"

"I mean, we must get away from here. Marie's budding talent will never thrive here, and I—I shall grow stale if I don't get away soon. We want to travel."

"I see—well, travel along with you then; don't mind me."

"We want to go to Paris. Mrs. Rantzau, who is herself a distinguished artist, says it's the only thing for us, to go to Paris and complete our education. There is no hope of developing one's talents in a place like this—they simply wither and die."

"Ah, that would be a pity."

"Father, you must let us go. Don't you think yourself, you ought to make some little sacrifice for your only son?"

"You think I haven't done enough? Wasn't it for your sake I married your foster-mother? Haven't I thrown away hundreds of pounds on your miserable education as you call it, and your fantastic inventions in the engineering line that never came to anything? I could ill spare the money at the time, I can assure you."

"Oh, now I suppose we're to have the old story over again, with the £150."

"It won't do you any harm to hear it again. Where would you have been, or I and the lot of us, in 1875, if Knut G. Holm hadn't got that £150 from C. Henrik Pettersen. Down and under, and that with a vengeance."

"It was very good of Pettersen, I'm sure."

"Pettersen it was; it couldn't have been anyone else. The money was sent anonymously, as you know, the very morning I was thinking of putting up the shutters and giving up for good. Just the money, and a slip of paper, no business heading, only 'Herewith £150, a gift from one who wishes you well.' That was all, no signature, only a cross, or an 'x' or whatever it was, at the foot."

"Only an 'x'?"

"That was absolutely all. I puzzled my brains to think out who the good soul could be, but could never bring it round to anyone but C. Henrik Pettersen, my old friend. Though it wasn't like him, and that's the truth."

"You mean he was close-fisted generally?"

"He was a business man, my boy, if ever there was one. But we knew each other better than most. I was in the know about his dairy butter at fifty per cent. profit—though the Lord knows I wouldn't say a word against him now he's dead and gone."

"But didn't you ask him straight out if it was he that sent the money?"

"I should think I did. But he was one of those people that won't say more than they want to. I could never make him out myself. He used to just sit there and smile and never say a word, but got me on to talk instead."

"Well, I suppose it couldn't be anyone else?"

"It was him sure enough. He was an old bachelor, and an eccentric sort of fellow, with nobody to leave his money to, so it wasn't altogether strange he should send me that little bit of all he'd made, in return for all the yarns I'd told to brighten him up. Anyway, things took a turn for the better after that, and I pulled round all right, so I've nothing to worry about now, in spite of all you've cost me."

"It wasn't so much, I'm sure. And if only that aerial torpedo of mine had gone right, I'd have paid you back with interest."

"But it went wrong—and so did you, my good sir; and if you talk about sacrifice, why, I think it was sacrifice enough, after I'd thrown away £200 on the wretched thing, to come out myself to the parade ground and see the thing go awry."

"By an unfortunate accident."

"A very fortunate accident, if you ask me, that it didn't come down where we stood, or it might have done for a whole crowd of innocent folk that were simple enough to come out and look."

"I don't know, I'm sure, what you want to drag up that old story again for."

"Because I want you to keep to earth in future. Stay at home—on the mat, if you like it that way."

"Will you help us to go to Paris, or will you not?"

"Honestly, then, I should call it throwing money away to do anything of the sort."

"But if you knew that people who really know something about art considered it absolutely necessary for our future, for the development of our talents as artists, then would you let us go?"

"Competent judges to decide, you mean?"

"If you will, we've both of us faith enough in our calling, and in our future as artists."

"Well, that sounds reasonable enough, I admit."

"You will not accept Mrs. Rantzau's decision alone? She is well known, not only as a teacher of singing herself, but her husband had a great reputation as an author and art critic, so she's heard and seen a great deal. And she said the other day that the little seascape of mine up in the Art Society's place was excellent; the sky in particular was finely drawn, she said."

"I've no doubt she's a very clever woman. I haven't the honour of her acquaintance myself, but I must say I think a great deal of her daughter, in the office here."

"Oh, Betty's just the opposite of her mother—she's no idea of art whatever."

"No, poor child, I dare say she's had quite enough both of poverty and humbug."

"Really, father, I don't think you're justified in saying things like that."

"That may be, my son. But if you two young people are set on making artists of yourselves, why, do. And if you can give me a reasonable guarantee that it's any good trying, why, I won't stand in your way."

"I think we can, then."

And William went up to tell Marie what had passed. Holm sat for a while occupied with his own thoughts, and came at last to the conclusion that the children were "artist-mad," and got it badly. He must manage to get hold of this Mrs. Rantzau, and see if she could not be persuaded to use her influence to get these ideas out of their heads—especially now, since her daughter was in the office.

There was a gentle tap at the door. It was little Hans, who stood timidly looking up at him.

"Well, Hans, lad, and how's the music getting on? I hope you've made friends with your teacher?"

He drew the boy over to a seat beside him on the sofa. Hans carefully placed his cap over one knee, for his trousers were torn, and he did not want it to be seen.

"Have you been for your lesson every day?"

"Yes, till the day before yesterday, but then I hurt my hand chopping wood for mother, so I've got to wait a few days till it's well." And he held out one thin little hand, showing two fingers badly bruised and raw.

"Poor little man! I must tell Bramsen to lend you a hand with the chopping."

"And, please, I was to bring you this letter from Mr. Bess; he asked me to take it up to you myself. It's the bill for my lessons, I think," he added quickly, "and he wants the money because of the rent." Hans was well acquainted with such things from his own home life, and having heard the organist and his wife talking about the rent falling due, he at once took it for granted that the case was as urgent then as when his own mother lay awake at nights wondering how to meet a similar payment.

Holm took the letter and read:

"In accordance with your request, I have been giving lessons for some time to little Hans Martinsen, whose gift for music is really surprising. Though I do not consider myself fully qualified to judge the precise value of his talent, I would say, as my personal opinion, that the child shows quite unusual promise. And I am convinced that with skilful and attentive tuition, he could in time become a player of mark.

"I am an old man now, and am not otherwise competent to train such talent as it should be trained, but as a lover of music myself, I beg you to assist the child; you will find your reward, I'm sure. If I could afford it, I would gladly contribute as far as I was able, but as you know I am not in a position to do so. I will not, however, accept any payment for the lessons given, but should be glad to feel that I have made some little offering myself towards his future."

Holm read the letter through once more.

"Little man, we must send you to Christiania to study there. I'll arrange it all, and you shall have the best teacher that's to be had."

Hans sat twirling his cap, and made no answer.

"Well, Hans, aren't you glad? Wouldn't you like to go on with your music?"

"Yes, but I can't. I can't go away and leave mother; there'll be nobody to help her then."

"Don't worry about that, my boy; your mother shall go with you. No more washing; all she'll need to do will be just to look after you."

"But—how? Mother couldn't go away like that!"

"We'll manage that all right. It's very simple. I'll lend your mother the money, do you see, and then, when you've learnt enough and can play properly yourself, you can pay it back—if you want to, that is."

"Oh—oh, how good you are! May I run home and tell mother, now?"

"Yes, run along and tell her as quickly as you like. Only understand, not a word to anyone else about it. I'll come round this evening, anyway, and fix it all up."

Hans, in his delight, forgot all about hiding the hole in his trousers; he grasped his friend's hands and looked at him with glistening eyes.

"Is it really true—that I'm to go to Christiania?"

"True as ever could be, little lad, and now off you go—I'll come along soon."

Holm took the organist's letter and read it through once again.

"Noble old fellow—so you'd sacrifice your hard-earned money and give your trouble for nothing? Not if I know it; you shan't be a loser there. And as for Hans, I'll see to his education myself. He shall go to Paris instead of those madcap youngsters with their parties. My '52 Madeira too! But we'll soon put a stop to that."

V
MRS. RANTZAU'S STORY

She was a teacher of singing, and had only recently settled in the town. Holm had never seen her, but now that her daughter was working in his office, and Marie had begun taking lessons with Mrs. Rantzau herself, he felt it his duty to call.

Moreover, he had some secret hope that it might be possible here to find an ally in his plan for combating Marie's artistic craze. In addition to which, she was Betty's mother....

The place was four storeys up, and Holm, tired after his climb, sat down at the top of the stairs for a moment before ringing the bell.

Tra-la-la-la-la-la—he could hear a woman's voice singing scales inside, the same thing over and over again. A little after came another voice, which he took to be Mrs. Rantzau's.

"Mouth wide open, please; that's it—now breathe!"

Holm rang the bell and Mrs. Rantzau opened the door.

He stood dumbfounded for a moment, staring at her.

"Heavens alive—it can't be—Bianca, is it really you?"

She turned pale, came close to him and whispered:

"For Heaven's sake, not a word." Then, taking him by the arm, she thrust him gently into a room adjoining.

He heard the young lady take her departure, and a moment later Mrs. Rantzau stood before him.

She was still a magnificently handsome woman. The dark eyes were deep and clear as ever, the black hair waved freely over the forehead, albeit with a thread of silver here and there. Her figure was slender and well-poised, her whole appearance eloquent of energy and life.

"If you knew how I have dreaded this moment, Mr. Holm," she began, then suddenly stopped.

"H'm—yes. It's a good many years now since last we met, Bianca—beg pardon, Mrs. Rantzau, I mean."

"Fifteen—yes, it's fifteen years ago. And much has happened since then. I didn't know really whether to go and call on you myself, and ask you not to say anything about the way we met, and how I was living then. But then again, I thought you must have forgotten me ages ago."

"Forgotten! Not if I live to be a hundred."

"And then, too, I thought it might be awkward for Betty if I tried to renew our old acquaintance; you might be offended, and not care to keep her on at the office...."

"But—my dear lady—however could you imagine such a thing?"

"Oh, I know how good and kind you were when I knew you before—but people change sometimes. And you can understand, I'm sure, Mr. Holm, that my position here, my connection with my pupils, would be ruined if the past were known. Not that I've anything to be ashamed of, thank God, but you know yourself, in a little town like this, how people would look at a woman—or even a man, for that matter—whose life has been so—so unusual as mine."

"Dear lady, I understand, of course, but I should never have thought of mentioning a word of our relations in the past."

"Thanks, thanks! Oh, I can see now you have not changed. Kind and thoughtful as ever; you were good to me, Mr. Holm—not like the others." Her voice trembled a little, and she grasped his hand.

Holm flushed slightly, murmured a few polite words, and thought—of Betty.

Mrs. Rantzau continued: "I should like you to understand, to realise yourself the position I was placed in then. Will you let me tell you the whole story—if you've time?"

"Indeed I've time—you took up quite a considerable amount of my time before, you know," he added kindly.

"Ah, I see you're the same as ever, Mr. Holm, always bright and cheerful over things."

"Why, yes, I'm glad to say. It would be a pity not to."

"Well, let me begin. My life hasn't been a path of roses—far from it; it's been mostly thorns. If only I could write, I might make quite an exciting story of it all. I'm forty-two now, started life as a parson's daughter up in the north, was married to a poet, and lived with him in Paris; my child was born, and I was left a widow then. I had to keep myself and Betty by the work of my hands; sang at concerts, and accompanied in Hamburg, lived as a countess in Westphalia——"

"What—a countess?"

"Well, very nearly. But I'll tell you about that later. I taught French in Copenhagen, and painting in Gothenburg, was housekeeper to a lawyer in a little Norwegian town, nearly married him but not quite, and ended up here teaching singing. So you see I've been a good many things in my time."

"But tell me—tell me all about it," exclaimed Holm eagerly.

"Mr. Holm, you know the darkest part of all my life; it is only fair that you should know the rest. I've nothing to be ashamed of, for after all I have managed to earn a livelihood for myself and Betty. I was seventeen when I left home, and they said I was quite good-looking——"

"You're equal to anything on the market now, as we say in business——"

"Well, I came straight from the wilds of the Nordland to Christiania, and they called me 'the Nordland sun.' I was the most sought after at all the dances, and perhaps one of the most brilliant, for I came to the gay life of the capital with the freshness of a novice. It was not long before I became engaged to a young writer—a poet, he was——"

"The devil you did! Beg pardon, I'm sure, but to tell the truth I've no faith in that sort of people, as Banker Hermansen would say."

"We were both of us young and inexperienced; he dreamed of gaining world-wide fame by his pen, and I used to weep over his passionate love poems. I was eighteen and he twenty-two, and I promised to follow him to the end of the world, for better or worse.

"Then one fine day we landed in Paris, without caring a jot for our people, our friends, or our own country. We were married there at the Swedish Church, and there I was, a poet's wife, with my people at home trying to forget the black sheep of the family.

"A few years passed. But every day saw the breaking of one of the golden threads in our web of illusion, and when Betty was born we were in desperate straits.

"Poor old Thor, he used to sit up late at night writing stuff for the papers at home, all about magnificent functions he'd never been to at all, and warming his frozen fingers over a few bits of coal in the stove."

"And he might have made quite a decent living in an office," put in Holm sympathetically.

"Unfortunately, he imagined he was a genius, and gradually, as things got worse and worse, the struggle for a bare existence made him bitter, till he hated the world, and looked upon himself as a martyr condemned to suffering.

"Then he took to staying out late of an evening, and wrote less and less. By the time we had been there a year, the poet's wife was washing lace to keep the home together. In the autumn of the second year, he went down with pneumonia, and a week after the 'Nordland sun' was a widow. I couldn't go home, for I'd cut myself adrift from them completely when I married. There was nothing for it but to struggle along as best I could by myself, unknown and friendless in the great city. But, thank Heaven, I've always had my health and a cheerful temper, and little Betty was such a darling."

"Yes, she's a wonderful girl."

"She and I have fought our way together, Mr. Holm, and a hard fight it has been at times, believe me.

"Well, we got along somehow in Paris, for a few years, doing needlework, or giving music lessons at fifty centimes an hour. It was a cheerless existence mostly, as you can imagine, and if it hadn't been for the child I should have broken down long before.

"Then at last I got the offer of a place as accompanist at a concert hall in Hamburg, with a salary of a hundred marks a month for three hours' work every evening and two rehearsals a week. This was splendid, and I was in the highest spirits when I left Paris. Besides, it was a little nearer home, and I used to be desperately home-sick at times, though I knew it was hopeless to think of going back.

"Imagine my feelings, then, when I got to the place and found it was a common music hall; though very decent, really, for a place of that sort."

"It was a beautiful place—at least, I thought so, when I saw you there."

"Well, there I sat, night after night, accompanying all sorts of more or less third-rate artistes. It used to make me wild, I remember, when they sang false, or were awkward in their gestures; I used to look at them in a way they would remember. And really, I managed to make them respect me after a time, though I was only twenty-five myself.

"Then, besides my evenings there, I gradually worked up a little connection giving music and singing lessons outside, till I was making enough to live fairly comfortably.

"But one day the whole staff went on strike, and left at a moment's notice, and there we were. The manager—you remember him, I dare say, Sonnenthal; man with a black waxed moustache and a big diamond pin—he came running in to me and said I must sing myself; it would never do to close down altogether in the height of the season. He thought he would get at least a couple of other turns, and if I would help it would get us over the difficulty.

"I told him I couldn't think of it—said I had no talent for that sort of thing; but he insisted, and offered me fifty marks a night if I would.

"Fifty marks was a fabulous sum to me for one night, then, after living on a franc and a half a day in Paris, and it meant so much for Betty. I began to think it over.

"And really I felt sure myself that I could do better than these half-civilised cabaret singers, from Lord knows where, that I'd been playing to for so long. But the parson's daughter found it hard to come down to performing like that.

"Then Sonnenthal offered me sixty marks. He thought, of course, it was only a question of money. It was too good to refuse, and I agreed.

"He got out new posters, with big lettering:

'SIGNORA BIANCA

The World-renowned Singer from Milan now Appearing.'

"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"

On the day after Holm had been up to Mrs. Rantzau, William and Marie came into the office. Each wore an air of serious importance, and Holm at once suspected something in the wind.

"Father, we want to read you something. It's from an article in the paper."

"Right you are, my boy—go ahead!"

"It's about that picture of mine, the big one of 'Rebecca and the Camels,' that's on exhibition now in Christiania."

"What's she doing with the camels?"

"Giving them water."

"Oh, I see. Watering the camelias; yes, go on."

"Father, I don't think it's nice of you always to be making fun of William," put in Marie.

"Making fun? Not a bit of it, my dear offspring, I'm highly interested."

"Don't you want to hear what the papers say about my work?"

"That's just what I'm waiting for, if you'll only begin."

William opened the paper and read out solemnly:

"This large canvas, 'Rebecca and the Camels,' is the work of that promising young painter, William Holm.

"The most surprising feature of the picture, at a first glance, is the courage and self-confidence displayed by this young artist in handling so lofty a theme.

"Naturally, some of the details are not altogether happy in their execution, but, taken as a whole, one cannot but admit that it is a real work of art, and the country may be congratulated on adding a fresh name to the roll of its talented artists.

"With the further study which, we understand, he is shortly about to undertake in Paris, William Holm should have a great future before him."

"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:

"My dear Miss Holm,—I have for the past week carefully and conscientiously tested your voice in order to give my verdict without hesitation as to your chances of making a career as a singer.

"I regret that as a result I can only advise you most seriously to relinquish the idea.

"You have certainly a pleasing voice, but its compass is only slight, and would never be sufficiently powerful for concert work.

"By all means continue your training, you will find it worth while, and your voice might be a source of pleasure to your home circle and friends. I am sure you will be a thousand times happier in that way than in entering upon a career which could only lead to disappointment.—Sincerely yours,

"Emilie Rantzau."

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:

"Norwegian Camels"

"A decidedly humorous work of art has been on exhibition here the last few days.

"We have rarely seen visitors to the gallery so amused as were the groups that gathered before the large-sized canvas indicated as representing 'Rebecca and the Camels.'

"The young lady with the water-jug appears to be suffering from a pronounced gumboil, and is evidently utterly bored with her task of acting as barmaid to the camels; which latter, be it stated, are certainly but distantly related, if at all, to the honourable family of that name as represented in our Zoological Gardens.

"Indeed, we have it on good authority that a formal protest will shortly be lodged by the family in question against the unrightful adoption of a distinguished name by these monstrosities; the dromedaries, too, albeit less directly concerned, are anxious to disclaim any relationship.

"As for the setting, it must be admitted that the sky is undoubtedly as blue as anyone could wish, while cactus and cabbage grow luxuriantly about the hoofs of the so-called camels.

"Such unfettered and original humour is rare in Norwegian art; we are more accustomed to works of serious and mystic significance from that quarter. Presumably, the painting in question represents a new school, and we can only congratulate the country on the possession of so promising a young artist."

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

There was a marked change in the office now. Every day, when Holm came in, he would find William seated at his desk, opposite Miss Betty. Early and late, William was always there, working away to all appearance like a steam engine. This in itself was excellent, of course, but, on the other hand, it destroyed all chance of a comfortable chat with Betty tête-à-tête. And every day Holm felt more and more convinced that Betty and he were made for one another. Or at least that Betty was made for him.

"You must get the hang of the outside business too, my son," he observed one day. "Down at the waterside, for instance, there's a lot needs looking after there."

"Yes, father," said William respectfully, "but I want to get thoroughly into the bookkeeping first, and Miss Rantzau is helping me."

There was nothing to be said to this, of course, but it was annoying, to say the least. And Holm senior, thinking matters over in his leisure hours, would say to himself:

"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

Forty years earlier the corner premises occupied by the firm of Knut G. Holm had belonged to Melchior Trap, who had his business there. Melchior Trap was one of the great traders of the place in his day, and a man looked up to by all.

He was supposed to have made a fortune in the Crimean War, but lost most of it later, though enough remained for him to leave his daughter and only child, Malla Trap, a comfortable income after his death.

Knut Holm, as a lad of fifteen, had entered the service of Melchior Trap, starting in the shop, and gradually working his way up, until, when the old man died, he was able to take over the business himself.

Malla Trap was then a friend of old standing; some, indeed, of the older generation declared that Holm in his young days had been in love with his master's daughter, but that the old patrician would not hear of the match.

However this might be, Malla Trap was a regular visitor at the Holms', and as far back as the children could remember, Aunt Trap had always come round to dinner every Sunday, where a special place was laid for her at table.

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.

"What do you say to that, my lanky cousin—pretty bit of goods the banker's got hold of there. Who is she?"

"Mrs. Rantzau, the music teacher."

"Oho! So that's the lady, is it! Well, I must say, she looks quite smart."

"When are you coming to see me?"

"My dear child, think of your reputation! What would the world say if I were to go visiting a love-lorn female without a chaperon in the world?"

"Don't talk nonsense. Come home and have dinner. I've a nice piece of fish."

"And apple sauce, what? No, thank you; I was ill for a fortnight last time I sampled your new-fangled menus. But I mustn't take up your valuable time. Addio, cara mia!"

And Vindt strode off, in time to see Hermansen and Mrs. Rantzau disappear round the corner. He began to wonder what it could mean.

Banker Hermansen running off in business hours with a lady all dressed up—this was something altogether unprecedented, and enough to set others beside Vindt agape. Hermansen, a man devoid of all tender feeling, whose heart was popularly supposed to be made of rhinoceros hide—surely he could not be going that way like any other mortal?

Vindt was so occupied with the phenomenon that he walked full tilt into Listad and the schoolmaster, the former of whom buttonholed at once and began delivering a long harangue about the new Ministry and the political situation.

"... Such a state of things, my dear sir, is more than gloomy; it is desperate. And the fons et origo of the whole trouble lies in the fact that...."

"That there's too many amateurs poking their fingers into the business as it is, and an ungodly mess they're making of it, instead of sticking to their work and doing something useful."

Listad thought he had never met a ruder fellow than this unceremonious broker; never encountered a citizen with a more callous disregard to higher political aims, and the needs of the country.

"But what—what is to become of a nation if its individual units allow themselves to be swallowed up in mere material strivings, deaf to the call of lofty ideals, blind to the moral welfare of the land, and of humanity at large? I ask you, how will such a people fare?"

"First-rate, if you ask me," said Vindt, and walked off.

Meantime Malla Trap had come to the conclusion that she might as well take up the business in hand with Holm himself at once; it would have to be done sooner or later.

She went up to the drawing-room, and told the maid to go down and ask if Mr. Holm could spare a few minutes.

Holm was somewhat surprised at the message; Malla Trap did not often come round like this of her own accord in the middle of the week.

"Well, my dear Miss Trap, is there anything special the matter since we have the pleasure of seeing you to-day? Or were you feeling lonely, perhaps?"

"Lonely enough I am at times, Knut Holm."

"Why, yes, I suppose—when one is all by oneself—er—one feels that way now and then. I know myself I often feel the want of company, someone to confide in——"

"Ah, but you've memories, Knut Holm, happy memories."

"That's true—but even then—it's apt to be dull all the same in the long-run, with nothing but memories."

"I hear you are thinking of marrying again."

"And who's been kind enough to tell you that?"

"Oh, I had it from a reliable source. But honestly, Knut Holm, I think you will do well to reflect before you do."

"I've put in quite enough reflection over it already, my dear Malla Trap, worked it out all round. I know it means a lot of extra expense and bother, with new arrangements and all that, but seeing I can't reasonably expect to live more than another twenty years or so, I fancy there'll be enough to manage it."

"So that's what you call working it out, is it? Working out sums of money! I thought you were a man of loftier ideals than that."

"I was, in my younger days, Malla Trap. Do you remember the time when we two were fond of each other?"

"I don't think I've forgotten it."

"We were as good as engaged, weren't we?"

"I had your promise, Knut Holm, and I trusted you. I waited and waited, but you never came."

"Yes, it was a pity, I know. But, you see, your father was so furious when he heard about it, and treated me in such a manner, that I simply couldn't put up with it. And then, afterwards, there were those affairs with Maggie and Mrs. Gronlund—but I'm sure I don't know what we want to go dragging up all that for. We've got along quietly and comfortably now together these many years; let bygones be bygones, say I."

"Oh, I've forgiven you everything long ago. But I haven't forgotten, and I've my own reasons for reminding you of it all to-day for the first and last time. So go on."

Holm walked up and down restlessly, wondering what Malla Trap could have in mind. It did not occur to him for the moment that she might be acting on William's behalf, or he might have been less frank. As it was, he went on with a touch of forced gaiety:

"Well, well, my dear Malla Trap, if you must have the old story set out in detail, don't mind me. I'll tell you all about it. I had to marry Maggie, you see; as a gentleman I could do nothing else. And as for Mrs. Gronlund, why, seeing she wouldn't give up the boy, I had to take her as well. Altogether, you see, it's been the boy's fault all along. If it hadn't been for him, you and I might have fixed things up after all."

"Best as it was, I dare say. But I ask you now, for the sake of our old friendship, do not make another woman unhappy."

"But, my dear soul, Maggie and Mrs. Gronlund were as happy as could be. I really think I've a sort of gift for making women happy, when I love them."

"Ha, ha! Excuse my laughing, but really, Knut Holm, I can't help it. You loved me once, or so you said, at least."

"Oh, we were only children then."

"But I can't say you ever made me happy in that way."

"I assure you, Malla Trap, I've been more sorry than you know about that business."

"Oh, I don't think you ever troubled much to think what a forsaken woman feels, what misery it means to her."

"Well, honestly, I don't find it easy to put myself in her place, as it were—no, I can't say—— It must be very unpleasant, of course.... H'm. But you seem to have got along pretty comfortably all the same, as far as one can see."

"As far as one can see, yes." Her voice was earnest now. "Has it never occurred to you to think why Malla Trap grew into the eccentric, half-foolish creature people turn to smile at now? Do you know what it means to lose one's whole objective in life? Ah, no, you wouldn't understand; no one else, perhaps, could understand how a woman's life can be made empty, aimless, a mere chaos of existence—though, Heaven be thanked, there have been little rays of sun-light here and there. And when the whole poor comedy is ended, why, I hope there may be some few that will spare a kindly thought for Malla Trap."

"If I knew how I could help you, Malla Trap, I'd do it gladly. But, honestly, I can't see what you're driving at just now."

"I want your son to be happy, that's all."

"Oh—so that's where the trouble lies, is it? Very sensible of him, I'm sure, to get you on his side, but if you'll excuse my saying so, Malla Trap, you'd better leave things alone."

He strode up and down, and the casual, easy-going air he had assumed gave way to a more serious expression. At last he stopped, and stood facing her.

"There are critical moments in every man's life," he began, "and, and—I reckon I've had my share. I've been on the verge of bankruptcy...."

"In 1875, yes."

"Why—how did you know?"

"Oh, I knew how matters stood then, well enough."

"There wasn't a soul that knew it except C. Henrik Pettersen."

"You think so, do you?"

"There was Hermansen at the bank, he had some idea, I dare say, but nobody else."

"I knew." She drew off her gloves and smoothed them out on the table. Holm stood still, looking earnestly at her.

"Was it—was it you, then, that sent me the hundred and fifty pounds?"

"You've guessed it at last, then? Yes, it was I. I knew you were in desperate straits, that you would be ruined if you did not get help from somewhere."

"After I'd treated you so badly?"

"A woman's heart's a strange thing."

"But why did you never tell me before to-day?"

"I should never have told you at all, if it hadn't been for William's sake. I'm proud of the boy; he's been good to me, and a homeless old woman's grateful for a little kindness. Well, now you know it—and now I ask you again to give up Betty Rantzau; there'll be nothing but trouble come of it, if you go on. And they're fond of each other, I may as well tell you that at once."

"That boy—that boy! It's as I said before; he's been the trouble all along."

"This time, at least, it's for your own good."

"That remains to be seen. But I can't get over that business of the hundred and fifty pounds."

"Say no more about it, Knut Holm."

"And that artful old rascal of a Pettersen; to think I should have wasted a wreath on his grave every blessed year since he died. Eleven wreaths at four shillings a time—true, I left out the ribbon last time, that was so much saved. But he shouldn't have had a single flower out of me, if I'd known."

"Then it's agreed that you let William marry Betty?

"I never said anything of the sort. But the hundred and fifty—my head's all going round. How am I to pay you back again? Really, I'm sorry—you must excuse me...."

And he strode out of the room. Miss Trap sat smoothing out her gloves on the table. Thinking matters over, she came to the conclusion that Holm would give in, but the way did not seem quite clear as yet.

A little later William looked in.

"Has he gone?"

"Just this minute."

"What did he say? Did you manage it, Auntie Trap?"

"He's obstinate, my boy, but I think we shall get him round all right. Your father only wanted to try you, William. He's a strange man, is Knut Holm."

"Do you think that was all it was?"

"Yes, I should say so. He could hardly find a better way of making you serious about it, than by playing the part of a rival."

"Oh, we must have Betty up—we've settled it all between us, now." And before Miss Trap could say a word, he was gone. Two minutes later he came back, leading Betty by the hand.

"This is Auntie Trap—yes, you must call her Auntie now, for it's she that's managed it all. Though it was really only a sort of trial father got up, so Auntie says—he's a wonder, the old man, what?"

"May I call you Auntie as well, Miss Trap? I've never had an aunt myself, and it's nice. Mother and I have always been alone."

"I know, my child. Call me Auntie by all means, and God bless you both. It's all to be for the best. I'm sure father was only wanting to try you. I know Knut Holm of old; he's his own queer ideas at times, but his heart's in the right place."

And she put her arm round Betty's neck and kissed her.

"Lovely it must be for you two young people on the threshold of the promised land. But remember, as you look towards it, that it only comes once in a lifetime—just this one moment, when the mists have cleared away, and the future is bright before you. I wish you happiness, children."

She walked out, erect as ever, but with her wise eyes, as it were, veiled. William and Betty watched her a little way up the street.

They stood hand in hand by the window, looking out over the river; Betty laid her head on his shoulder. Never before had the river and the hillside seemed so beautiful as to-day.

There came into Betty's mind the memories of her childhood, like dark shadows gliding by. The high-walled courtyard in Hamburg and the rooms in a narrow street in Copenhagen stood out clearest of all. She shivered a little, and put her arms round her lover's neck.

"Come, William, let us go and tell mother. She will be so happy."

Dry fish and wet

Transcriber's note

Dry Fish and Wet

Contents

I
THE TOWN

II
KNUT G. HOLM

III
BRAMSEN

IV
HERMANSEN OF THE BANK

V
MRS. RANTZAU'S STORY

VI
"REBECCA AND THE CAMELS"

VII
HOLM & SON

VIII
MALLA TRAP

IX
CLAPHAM JUNCTION

Dry fish and wet

Transcriber's note

Dry Fish and Wet

Contents

ITHE TOWN

IIKNUT G. HOLM

IIIBRAMSEN

IVHERMANSEN OF THE BANK

VMRS. RANTZAU'S STORY

VI"REBECCA AND THE CAMELS"

VIIHOLM & SON

VIIIMALLA TRAP

IXCLAPHAM JUNCTION

I
THE TOWN

II
KNUT G. HOLM

III
BRAMSEN

IV
HERMANSEN OF THE BANK

V
MRS. RANTZAU'S STORY

VI
"REBECCA AND THE CAMELS"

VII
HOLM & SON

VIII
MALLA TRAP

IX
CLAPHAM JUNCTION