Part 10

Apothecary Peters, who had only been a week in the place, was most grateful for the honour done him in inviting him to be present, and insisted on paying down his four shillings on the spot--at which Old Nick was incautious enough to remark that it was not wise to skin your beast before you'd killed him--Old Prois being the beast.

The rest followed as one man, and by the evening the list counted over sixty names, from all classes of society. Even old Klementsen, who had been parish clerk for fifty years, without getting so much as a silver spoon for his trouble, set down his name with a smile, albeit with an inward gnashing of teeth.

Thor Smith sat up in the magistrate's office, sweating over a taxation case. In the inner office was the old magistrate himself, with his wig awry, smoking his coarse-cut tobacco.

"Filthy hole of a place this is," soliloquised Smith. "Hang me if it isn't enough to make a man weep. I wonder how Old Nick's getting on with that list now? Oh, it's no good, I know; things never do go right." He glanced out of the window and up along the street, in case Old Nick might be coming along.

But--what on earth--a green tartan frock, and a toque with a white feather--she herself! He placed himself in the window, as if by accident--aha, she catches sight of him. And such a blush--and then she looks down. Won't she look up again? Yes, just once.

A smile of understanding, and she hurries away, as if from some deed of guilt. Thor Smith flattened his nose against the pane, staring after her as long as he could still see a thread of the green skirt, and for some time after.

He was awakened from his reverie by the magistrate himself, who came up behind and looked over his shoulder inquisitively.

"Well, and what are we looking out at, eh?"

"Oh, only those two funny old women over in the woollen shop; I never saw such queer things as they are."

"Nothing to look at in them that I can see," said the magistrate, who was by no means a woman-hater. And, taking his hat and stick, he bustled out.

A moment later Old Nick entered, flushed and out of breath. "Old man in?"--"No."--"Good!" He flung himself down in a chair and handed the list across to Smith.

"Puh! Devil take it, but this is hard work. And all for you and your lady-love. You don't deserve it."

Smith took the list and began counting the names. "Seventy-two--why, that's splendid, Nickelsen; you're a trump."

"Yes; don't you think I deserve a medal for it, what? Oh, by the way, though, we must hurry up and get hold of Prois himself now, or we'll have somebody else telling him all about it beforehand."

The esteemed fellow-citizen was busy down at the waterside, with a big pile-driver repairing the landing-stage. The men hauled at the ropes, while he stood by, calling the time in approved sing-song: "And one ohoy, and two ohoy, and three...." he stopped short at sight of Smith and Nickelsen approaching. He looked by no means pleased as he handed over command to Pilot Iversen, and told him to carry on with the pile-driving.

Tulla Prois was in the kitchen, making fish-balls; but on seeing the three men enter in solemn procession, she ran off in a fright to the attic, hid herself in a corner and burst out crying violently; evidently the matter was to be decided now once and for all. "Oh, it's mean of Thor," she murmured. "Why couldn't he wait till father was in a better temper?"

Meanwhile, Old Prois was wondering what on earth the two men could want with him.

He did not even glance at Smith, but when they got inside, invited them both to sit down.

Old Nick settled himself on a big birchwood sofa, with soft springs, into which he sank about half a foot deep. Above the sofa hung a picture of the "Cupid" (Captain Prois), with the port of Hull in the background, and all the seamen wearing stovepipe hats.

Old Nick cleared his throat a little, and started off with his introduction, pointing out the meritorious work of his host on the committee during the "considerable span of years" which he had devoted to the service of the community.

Prois sat dumbfounded, at a loss to understand what was coming.

At last, thinking he had sufficiently stimulated the other's curiosity, Old Nick came to the point:

"Consequently, and, I should add, chiefly at the instigation of my friend Smith, as secretary of the said committee, our fellow-citizens have empowered us to request the honour of your presence, my dear Warden, at a ceremonial banquet, to take place on Saturday next at 4 p.m., where we may hope to--er--find some suitable expression for our feelings--er, h'm--our appreciation of the fact that you have been for twenty-five years so closely associated with this important--this _most_ important of our local institutions."

Old Prois flushed slightly, tried to look unmoved, coughed, and finally requested the pair to "take a seat"--which they had already taken--and then rushed out into the passage calling in a voice of thunder for "Tulla, Tulla!" Then out to the kitchen, to send the maid to find her.

Meantime Old Nick sat stuffing an embroidered antimacassar into his mouth, laughing till the cushioned sofa and the picture above shook in dismay. He made faces at Smith, who, however, was not in the mood to appreciate the humour of the situation, which fact seemed further to increase Old Nick's amusement.

At last came a voice outside--"Where the deuce have you been, child? Hurry up and bring in some cakes and wine at once." Old Nick threw the antimacassar under the sofa, and his face resumed its most serious expression.

"Excuse my running off a moment, gentlemen, but I--er--you must allow me to offer you a glass of wine, with my best thanks for the invitation. I--er--really, it's too good of you, I must say. I'm sure I haven't done anything special for the place, but--well, since my esteemed fellow-citizens are good enough to think so, why...."

"I'm sure, Warden, your work has been most arduous and most valuable," said Smith, "and as secretary myself, you must allow me to judge." He spoke with some warmth, hearing Tulla approaching with the wine--and indeed the girl was trembling to such a degree that the glasses rang like a peal of bells.

Smith greeted her somewhat bashfully as she entered, but Old Nick chucked her under the chin in his superior paternal manner, and asked how she had got on at the dance. Thor Smith nudged his friend surreptitiously as a sign to him that the subject was one better left alone.

Old Prois poured out the wine, expressing his thanks for the honour anew, and drank a glass in the kindliest manner with Smith, the latter flushing with pleasure. Tulla stood over by the piano, intently occupied in putting her music in order, and wondering what on earth it all meant.

Old Nick was suddenly seized with a fit of coughing, under cover of which he managed to empty his glass of Muscatel into a flower-pot by the window. Then, catching sight of a hen crossing the courtyard, he developed an enthusiastic interest in Black Minorcas and White Leghorns. Prois, it should be mentioned, was a keen fowl-fancier, and had a whole collection of prize medals from various exhibitions, of which he was particularly proud.

Naturally enough, then, Old Nick had to be shown the fowl-runs, though until that date his fondness for the tribe had been exclusively confined to the table. He and his host accordingly went out together.

This left Thor Smith and his Tulla alone, blessing the Black Minorcas and the White Leghorns impartially, and not forgetting Old Nick; while for the rest, they utilised the opportunity just as other sensible young people in love would, to wit, by settling down in the big sofa and exchanging kisses under the "Cupid," while the men down at the landing-stage chanted their "one ahoy, and two ahoy, and three...." The pile-driver had got to sixteen when they heard Old Nick's voice outside: "Yes, those white-cheeked Leghorns are splendid, really splendid."

And Thor Smith and his Tulla judged it best to wake up from love's young dream.

The Banquet was a magnificent success; Thor Smith's speech for the guest of honour's family being particularly notable for the warmth and earnestness with which it was delivered.

Dessert and the half-bottle of sherry having been disposed of, the general feeling, which had been somewhat dull at first, grew more jovial, and speeches were numerous. The coffee and liqueurs brought the diners to the stage of embraces and assurances of mutual affection. Even Rod and Hansen, the two shipbrokers, who in the ordinary way hated one another cordially whenever one closed a charter more than the other, might be seen drinking together, and assuring all concerned that never were business competitors on friendlier terms. Here's luck, Rod, and Cheer-oh, Hansen!

Smith and Warden Prois became quite friendly, not to say intimate, in the course of the evening; they sat a little apart, in animated discussion of something or other, but apparently on the best of terms. And they finished up towards morning by drinking eternal brotherhood and embracing each other.

The guest of honour was escorted to his home by such members of the party as were still able to keep their feet; and Old Nick, in a farewell speech, expressed the wish that he, the Warden, might long retain the memory of that evening in his head, which charitable sentiment was greeted with delighted applause.

A week after that memorable occasion Thor Smith went round to the Warden's, and presented himself in due form as a suitor for the hand of Miss Tulla.

He had previously arranged with Old Nick, whom he had visited on the way down, that if all went as he wished, and the matter was settled at once, he would wave a handkerchief from the garden steps, so that Nickelsen, on the look-out at his corner window, would see, with a glass, the result of the suit.

Scarcely had Old Nick arrived at his post, glass in hand, when lo, not one, but two handkerchiefs waved from the Warden's garden.

He walked up and down the room, rubbing his hands in keen gratification, but turned suddenly serious, and murmured to himself: "Ay, they're the lucky ones, that don't have to go through life alone. Well, thank Heaven, I've never been given to grieving over things myself, and that's a blessing, anyhow." He lit a cigar, and the passing cloud was wafted away as usual by his inherent good humour.

"Oh, I can't wait any longer; I must go round and be the first to offer congratulations." And off went Old Nick, hurrying down the street to the Warden's.

XIII

CILIA

"The one who eats most porridge, gets most meat," said Cilia Braaten, ladling out a large second helping for Abrahamsen, the mate, who innocently accepted.

"No more for me, thanks," said Soren Braaten. He knew his wife's economical trick of getting her guests to eat so much of the first course that they had little cargo space left for the second.

Cilia Braaten was a woman who could hold her own, and was regarded as one of the cleverest shipowners on the fjord, closing charters herself, with or without a broker.

Cecilia was her proper name, but she was invariably called Cilia for short.

Soren Braaten, her husband, was hardly ever referred to at all, his wife having charge of everything that mattered, including the chartering of the two vessels _Birkebeineren_ and _Apollo_--and Heaven help Soren if he failed to obey orders and sail as instructed by Madam Cilia.

Soren was a kindly and genial soul, who would not hurt a fly as long as he was left to sail his _Birkebeineren_ in peace. True, he would grumble once in a while, when his wife seemed more than usually unreasonable, and throw out hints that he knew what he was about, and could manage things by himself.

"Manage, indeed. A nice sort of managing it would be! What about that time when you fixed _Birkebeineren_ for a cargo of coals to the Limfjord, where there's only ten foot of water, and she draws nineteen? If I hadn't come and got you out of it, you'd have been stranded there now." And Cilia threw a glance of indignant superiority at Soren. The story of that Limfjord charter was her trump card, and never failed to quell Soren's faint attempts at retort.

Altogether, Cilia was unquestionably ruler of the roost, and managed things as she pleased, not only as regards Soren and the two ships, but also Malvina, the only daughter, who, like the rest, obeyed her without demur.

Soren had no reason to regret having given the administration of the household and the business into her care; for their fortunes throve steadily, and Cilia was, as mentioned, one of the smartest shipowners in the fjord. She invariably managed to get hold of the best freights going; the shipbrokers at Drammen seemed by tacit consent to give her the first refusal of anything good.

All, then, seemed well as could be wished with the family as a whole, and one would have thought Cilia herself must be content with things as they were. This, however, was by no means the case; Cilia had troubles enough, though, as so often happens, they were largely of her own making.

Soren's complete lack of tender feeling was one of the things that often worried her. It was particularly noticeable in his letters. He would write, for instance, in this style:

"MADAM CILIA BRAATEN,--Arrived here in London fourteen days out from the Sound. All well, and now discharging cargo. Have drawn L120 from the agents here, which please find enclosed. I await instructions as to further movements, and beg to remain--Yours very truly,

"S. BRAATEN."

Cilia flung the letter in a drawer and raged. Was this love? The simpleton--he should have been left to manage things for himself--and where would he have been then? This was all the thanks one got for all the toil and trouble. Why couldn't he write letters like Mrs. Pedersen got from her husband, who was skipper of the _Vestalinde_, commencing "My darling wife," and ending up with "Ever your loving--" That was something like affection! A very different thing from Soren's "Yours very truly." Mrs. Cilia was bursting with indignation.

She pondered the matter for some time, seeking to find a way of making Soren a little more demonstrative. And next time she wrote, she put it to him delicately, as follows:

"MY DEAREST HUSBAND,--I was very glad to receive your letter with the L120, but sorry you say nothing about how you are yourself. I often think affectionately of you, but there is a coolness about your letters which makes me quite unhappy to think of. You know I love you, and you know, too, how sorry I am to have to send you up into the Baltic so late in the year, but the freight was so good that I could not refuse it. Put on warm things, and see you have plenty of good food on board, and if you make a good voyage of it this time I hope to have another nice remittance from you before Christmas. And do let us agree for the future to sign our letters--'_Ever your loving_'

"CILIA BRAATEN."

The result of this appeal to Soren's tender feelings was not long delayed. It happened that Gudmunsen, skipper of the _Apollo_, while in Christiania with a cargo of coal, went on the spree there to such an all-obliterating extent that Mrs. Cilia received no accounts, and no freight money. She therefore wrote to Soren, who was in London, asking him to cable by return what was to be done with Gudmunsen. The reply came back as follows:

"Chuck him out.--Ever your loving

"SOREN BRAATEN."

And thenceforward his letters and telegrams were invariably signed "Ever your loving."

When Soren came home late that autumn, Cilia thought he might fairly have a year ashore, as they had laid by a good deal, and could afford a rest. Soren grumbled a little, and suggested that it would be desperately dull hanging about on shore all the summer, but Cilia undertook to find him entertainment enough. "We've all that bit of ground down there to plant potatoes, then the house wants painting, and a new garden fence--oh yes, and we ought really to have another well dug round at the back, and----"

Soren had visions of Cilia standing over him and ordering him about at these various tasks, while he toiled in the sweat of his brow. Oh, a nice sort of rest it would be! No, give him his old place on board, where he could do as he pleased.

There was no help for it, however. Abrahamsen, the mate, was put in charge of _Birkebeineren_ that summer, and Soren had to stay at home.

Soren Braaten had never had any social position to speak of in Strandvik, and indeed he had no wish for anything of the sort. His comrades at the Seamen's Union were good enough company for him. It was different with Cilia, however; as their means increased, she began to feel more and more aggrieved at never being asked to parties at Holm Berg's or Prois's, and as for the Magistrate's folk, they never so much as gave her a glance when she passed them in the street. And only the other day she had met that impertinent upstart, Lawyer Nickelsen; if he hadn't dared to address her simply as "Celia!" Oh, but she would show them! And she went over her plan--it was to be carried out this summer, while Soren was at home. Soren was to be renamed, and appear henceforward as Soren Braathen--with an "h," Shipowner. Malvina was to be a lady, and, if possible, married off to some young man of standing. Then, surely, the family would be able to take the rank and position in society to which their comfortable means entitled them.

While Cilia was occupied with these reflections in the kitchen--it was the day _Birkebeineren_ was to sail--Abrahamsen and Malvina were sitting in the summer-house in an attitude eloquent of itself. To be precise, they were holding each other's hands.

"It's none so easy for me, Malvina," the mate was saying, "as a common man, to ask your father and mother straight out--and there's no such desperate hurry as I can see till after this voyage."

With him Malvina agreed, and the loving couple separated, not without mutual assurances of undying faith and affection for better or worse, whatever obstacles might be placed in their way.

Meantime, Soren Braaten had stolen down to the cellar, where he had a carefully hoarded stock of English bottled stout, with which he was wont to refresh himself at odd moments. Seated on a barrel, he was enjoying the blessing of life and liquor in deep draughts, without a care in the world. True, he had seen through the skylight Malvina and the mate in what might be construed as a compromising position, but trusting in this as in all else to Cilia's management, he took it for granted that she was a party to the affair.

_Birkebeineren_ sailed, and Abrahamsen with her, leaving Soren at home to his fate. The potato-planting was shelved for the time being, as were the various other little jobs Cilia had mentioned; her one idea now was that he should appear as a gentleman of leisure, which Soren was unfeignedly content to do. In order, however, that he should not find the life too monotonous, she found him an occupation which to her idea was not incompatible with the dignity of a shipowner he was to look after Fagerlin. Fagerlin was the big brindled cow, and at present, being summertime, was allowed to take the air in the garden. Soren was accordingly charged to see that Fagerlin behaved herself, and did not eat up the carrots or the tiger lilies. Soren found the work comparable to that of the local customs officer, consisting as it did for the most part in sitting on a bench and smoking, with back numbers of the _Shipping Gazette_ to while away the time.

Cilia, however, was still constantly occupied in finding further means whereby the family might attain that position of importance and consideration in local society which, she was forced to admit, was lacking at present.

In this she found an unexpected ally in the person of Lieutenant Heidt, the magistrate's son, an old acquaintance from the days when Cilia had been parlourmaid at the house. True, he had been but a little boy at the time, but they had never quite lost sight of each other, and had grown most intimate, especially of late, since Cilia had taken to lending him money, in secret.

Lt. Heidt was of opinion that Soren ought to go off to some health resort; it was customary among people of the better class, he declared, to suffer from gout, or insomnia, or some such fashionable ailment, necessitating a few weeks' cure at one of the recognised establishments every summer. "And they put it in the papers, you know, who's there; it would look quite nice, say, in the _Morning News_, to see Shipowner Braathen, of Strandvik, was recuperating at So-and-so."

Cilia found the suggestion excellent, and began hinting to Soren that he was suffering from sleeplessness and gout. Soren was astounded, and indeed was disposed to regard the insinuation of sleeplessness as a piece of sarcasm, in view of the fact that he regularly took a couple of hours' nap each day irrespective of his customary ten hours at night. His protests, however, were in vain; he must go to Sandefjord, whether he liked it or not.

A brand new trunk with a brass plate, inscribed with the name and title of "Shipowner S. Braathen, Strandvik," was procured for the occasion, and Soren was escorted in full procession down to the boat, and packed off to Sandefjord. Before leaving, he had been given careful instructions by his better half as to behaving in a manner suited to his station, and also furnished with a well-lined pocket-book. This last was so unlike Cilia that Soren wondered what on earth had come to her: open-handedness in money matters had never been a failing of hers--far from it.

Lt. Heidt and Cilia had further discussed the question as to whether Malvina ought not to be sent to some _pension_ abroad, or at least to stay with a clergyman's family, for instance, somewhere in the country. This plan, however, was upset by Malvina's opposition. She flatly refused to do anything of the sort; and as the girl had inherited a good half at least of her mother's obstinacy, Cilia realised that it was hopeless to persist.

During Soren's absence, Lt. Heidt suggested that it would be well to use the opportunity and refurnish the house completely, for, as he said, it would never do for people in such a position as the Braathens to have a "parlour" suite consisting of four birchwood chairs without springs and that horrible plaster-of-Paris angel that had knelt for the past twenty years on the embroidery-fringed bracket--it was enough to frighten decent people out of the house! Cilia entirely agreed, and only wondered how it was she herself had never perceived it before; this, of course, was the reason they had had no suitable society. But she would change all that. Malvina was highly indignant when she heard of the proposed resolution. The parlour was quite nice as it was, to her mind, and as for the angel, her father had given it to her when she was a child, and it did not harm anyone; on the contrary, she loved her angel, and would take care it came to no hurt.

Lt. Heidt very kindly offered to go in to Christiania with Mrs. Cilia and help her choose the furniture; would indeed be delighted to assist in any way with the general rearrangement of the Braathen's _menage_. Cilia gratefully accepted, and the pair went off accordingly to the capital, duly furnished with the requisite funds, which Cilia had drawn from the bank for the occasion. On the way, she begged her companion to take charge of the money and act as treasurer; she had heard that pickpockets devoted their attention more especially to ladies.