Part 14

"Trusting to be favoured with a reply, when further particulars can be forwarded.--I beg to remain, yours very truly,

"EMILIE RANTZAU."

Old Nick sat for a long while staring thoughtfully before him.

"Widow, thirty-seven, long experience of keeping house, bright and cheerful temper.... I tell you what, Nachmann, this looks like what we want."

"Heavens, man, but she's musical--what do you want with that sort of thing in the house? No, no, my friend; the devil take that widow for his housekeeper--not you. She'd play you out of house and home in no time, my boy."

"Well, you know, really, I was getting a bit sick of old Marthe. Felt the lack of refined womanly influence now and again. And I must say this--what's her name--Emilie Rantzau rather appeals to me. There's something, I don't know what to call it, about her letter. Sort of ladylike, you know."

"Yes, and perfumed too, lovely, m-m-m. Patchouli!" said Nachmann, holding the envelope to Nickelsen's nose.

After some further deliberation Old Nick wrote to Mrs. Emilie Rantzau, and learned that she was the widow of a Danish artist, had spent many years abroad, and wished now to find a position in some small town where she could live a quiet, retired life, occupied solely with her duties.

Her letters were so frank and sincere, that they made quite an impression on Old Nick, and he decided to engage her. She was to come on Saturday, and on the Friday before, Nickelsen did not go to his office at all, but stayed at home, going about dusting the rooms with an old handkerchief.

Thinking the place looked rather bare, he obtained a big palm and an indiarubber plant to brighten things up a little.

He was queerly nervous and ill at ease every day, with a feeling as if some misfortune were on the way. What would she be like, he wondered? If the experiment turned out a failure, there would be an end of his domestic peace. Perhaps after all he would have done better to stick to the Marthe type....

They were seated at dinner, and her fine dark eyes played over his face.

"No, you must let me make the salad. I promise you it shall be good." And she took the bowl, her soft, delicate hand just touching his as she did so.

Old Nick murmured something politely, and was conscious that he flushed up to the roots of his white mane.

"Queer sort of woman this." It was on the tip of his tongue to say it aloud, but he checked himself in time. The joint was served, and for the first time in his life he forgot to pick out the marrow. Fancy forgetting that! In old Marthe's time he invariably sent for toast, and a spoon to get it out with; now he sat attentively listening to Mrs. Rantzau's stories of the theatre in Copenhagen.

"Very nice claret this of yours, Mr. Nickelsen. I know '78 is supposed to be the best--good body they say. Funny, isn't it, to talk of wine having a body."

She looked across at him with a smile, showing two rows of fine white teeth. Then, rising, she went over to the sideboard to show him that she too knew how to carve a joint. Old Nick took advantage of the opportunity to observe her more closely.

Dark, glistening hair, tied in what is called a Gordian knot at the back, with a tiny curl or so lower down, and a beautiful white neck. She was not tall, but her figure was well rounded, and the close-fitting dark dress showed it off to perfection.

Old Nick was so intent in studying her that he had not time to look away before she turned round and laughingly exclaimed:

"Well, are you afraid I shall spoil the joint?"

"No, indeed; I see you are an expert at carving."

In his confusion he upset the sauce tureen. But Mrs. Rantzau laughed heartily, holding his arm as she declared she must evidently have brought misfortune in her train.

Old Nick had been rather uneasy at the thought of what to say to her, but she made conversation so easily herself that he had only to put in an odd remark here and there: "Yes, of course, yes." "No, indeed." "Exactly."

In the evening Thor Smith, Nachmann and Warden Prois came round for their weekly game of cards. They were all remarkably punctual to-day: the clock had not struck seven before all three were in the hall, and all with unfeigned curiosity plainly on their faces.

"I'm dying to see how the old man gets on with this gay widow," said Thor Smith, touching up his hair and tie before the glass--a nicety he had never troubled about on previous visits to Old Nick.

Red paper shades had been put on the lamps, and the table was fully laid with tea-urn, cups and saucers, cakes and little fringed serviettes.

Old Nick, in a black frock-coat, advanced ceremoniously towards them; he said very little, however, and seemed generally rather ill at ease.

"Rather a change this," thought Warden Prois. He was more accustomed to finding Old Nick on such occasions in dressing-gown and slippers, with his old rocking-chair drawn up, and his feet on the table. Then, when he heard his visitors arrive, he would send a gruff hail to the kitchen: "Marthe, you old slow-coach, hurry up with that hot water, or I'll...." But to-day he was as polished and precise as an old marquis.

Prois glanced over towards Nachmann, and Thor Smith in despair picked up an ancient album that he had seen at least a hundred times before; the only pictures in it were portraits of the former parson, and of Pepita, a dancer, who had adorned the stage some forty years earlier, when Old Nick was young.

Then Mrs. Rantzau came in. She wore a black velvet dress, with a little red silk handkerchief coquettishly stuck in the breast.

Old Nick introduced them. She was certainly handsome, as she greeted each of the guests with a kindly word and a smile.

Tea was served, and she handed a cup to Smith and one to Prois. Nachmann had retired to the farthest corner of the sofa, as if on his guard.

She held out a cup towards him. "Mr. Nachmann, a cup of tea now?"

"Excuse me, I can drink most things made with water, including soda, potash and Apollinaris, but tea--no. It affects my nerves. Mr. Prois, now, is a confirmed tea-drinker; he'll have two cups at least, I'm sure."

Prois gave a furious glance at Nachmann, and struggled desperately with some sort of cake with currants in, and these he managed to spit out on the sly, hiding them in his waistcoat pocket.

At last the toddy and the cards appeared. Mrs. Rantzau sat close at hand, working at her embroidery, a large piece of canvas with a design representing Diana in the act of throwing a big spear at a retreating lion.

Nachmann, the only one who had retained his self-possession, was master of the situation.

"Now, what's that supposed to be, may I ask?"

"Oh, you can see, Mr. Nachmann. I'm sure it's plain enough."

"Well, now, honestly, my dear lady, I should say that Diana there is the very image of your charming self, and the terrified animal in the corner looks remarkably like our host. I do hope you'll be careful with that spear!"

Mrs. Rantzau was plainly offended, and gave him a sharp glance of reproof from her dark eyes.

"Ah, now you're angry, I can see. But really it was quite innocently meant."

Mrs. Rantzau rose and left the room hastily. There was an awkward pause, until Thor Smith took up the cards and began to shuffle.

"Water isn't hot," muttered Old Nick, clasping both hands about the jug.

"Only wait a little, old boy, and you'll find it hot enough, or I'm much mistaken. Ah, well, such is life without a wife.... Here, I say, where's your head to-night, Nickelsen. Bless my soul, if you haven't given them the game!"

Old Nick complained of headache that evening, and the party broke up earlier than usual. So early, indeed, that Thor Smith had scarcely finished his first glass, or the first cataract, as he called it, whereas ordinarily the third would be reached and passed in the course of the evening's play.

The three friends walked home together, all very serious, and greatly troubled in mind as to Old Nick's future.

Prois in particular took a most gloomy view. "It's a dangerous age for that sort of thing; comes on suddenly, before you know where you are." He was thinking of his own experiences in that direction; it was only four years since he had been wild to marry that young governess at the Abrahamsens', the disaster, however, being fortunately averted by the intervention of Pedersen, the telegraphist, who cut in and won her before he, Prois, had screwed himself up to the question.

Old Nick hardly knew the place again when he came down to breakfast next morning, to find Mrs. Rantzau presiding at table in a pink morning-gown and dainty shoes. The walls were decorated with Chinese paper fans in flowery designs, and Japanese parasols; the sofas had been moved out at all angles about the room. A big palm waved above his writing-table, and all the papers on it were neatly arranged in two piles of equal size, one on either hand.

At sight of this his blood began to boil; his writing-table was sacred; no human hand but his own had touched it for the past forty years. Old Marthe herself, when dusting the room, had been as shy of coming near it as if it had been a red-hot stove. Nevertheless, Old Nick found himself unable to say a word; Mrs. Rantzau's smile and her dark eyes threw him into utter confusion.

One day, happening to come in for some papers, he found her in the act of taking the documents of a case pending--"Strandvik Postal Authorities _v._ Holmestrand Town Council"--to clean the lamps with. But here he was obliged to put his foot down and protest. If he could not trust his papers to be left in safety on his table, why, he might as well move out of the house.

Mrs. Rantzau looked at him with great imploring eyes, and was so contrite; he must forgive her, she was so dreadfully stupid; she had no idea that papers could be so important.

Old Nick could not help smiling, and peace was restored, on condition that for the future only newspapers should be used for cleaning purposes. This naturally led to Old Nick's finding the one particular journal he wanted to read after dinner had been sacrificed.

She was undeniably handsome, however, especially in that pink morning-gown as she sat at the breakfast-table, while Old Nick revived his early memories and endeavoured to play the youthful cavalier.

Friends of the house were soon thoroughly convinced that Old Nick was done for; the widow had captivated him beyond recall. Thor Smith, thinking a warning might yet be in time, sent him anonymously the following lines:

"Be careful of taking a widow to wife, She'll lighten your purse and burden your life."

Nickelsen, however, recognised the writing, and promptly sent back a reply:

"Best thanks for your advice, my friend, 'Twas really kind of you to send; But still, considering whence it came, I can manage without it all the same. So keep your triplets, one--two--three, A widow without is enough for me!"

A grand ball was to be held at the Town Hall, in aid of the Fund for National Defence. Old Nick had no intention of going himself, but Mrs. Rantzau pointed out that it was his duty, as a loyal and patriotic citizen, to attend. Accordingly, albeit not without considerable hesitation, he decided to go. She tied his dress-bow for him, and put a red rosebud with a tip of fern in his buttonhole. She herself, with Old Nick in attendance, sailed into the ballroom like a queen, with pearls in her hair, and her dark blue silk dress fitting like the corslet of a Valkyrie.

The company made way for her involuntarily, and she was placed at the upper end of the hall, between Mrs. Jansen and Mrs. Heidt. The last named lady, who was ceremonious and reserved by nature, besides being conscious of representing the aristocracy of the town, was chilliness itself towards this newly risen star. Mrs. Jansen, on the other hand, a kindly soul, felt obliged to show her some little attention, and introduced her to a number of those present.

Dr. Stromberg, a middle-aged bachelor, had the reputation of falling in love with every new specimen of the fair sex he encountered. True to his character, he at once attached himself to Mrs. Rantzau, whose conquest of Strandvik was thus begun.

Old Nick sat in a corner talking to Winter, the Customs Officer, his eyes incessantly following the blue silk gown as it passed. His old heart was so restless and unruly, he began to wonder seriously if something had gone wrong with the internal mechanism. Cards, drinks, old friends, all were forgotten that evening he had no thought but for that figure in the blue silk dress that was ever before his eyes. He had experienced hallucinations before, when things seemed to dance round and round, but to-night, with nothing stronger than soda water--neat--it was past all comprehension.

In a circle of men, old and young, stood Emilie Rantzau, smiling and alert. She was sought after at every dance, until Mrs. Thor Smith, nee Tulla Prois, observed indignantly that one might think the men had never seen a woman from another town before--and Heaven only knew what sort of a creature this one was. Mrs. Jansen herself began to be rather uneasy, when she saw her husband lead out the widow as his partner for the lancers--or "lunchers" as Cilia Braaten called it. And matters were not improved when the Consul started talking French with Mrs. Rantzau at supper, of which his wife did not understand a word.

"She's charming, my dear, a most interesting woman, and speaks French like an educated Parisienne," said Jansen to his wife.

Poor Mrs. Jansen was beginning to experience the pangs of jealousy, and determined to purchase a _French made Easy_ the very next day.

"Bless my soul, if there isn't Justice Heidt asking the angelic widow for a dance," exclaimed Thor Smith, pulling Nachmann by the sleeve.

"Angelic widow's good," said Nachmann. "But there's angels and angels, you know. And they'd have to be a bit on the dusky side to pair off with Old Nick, what?"

Mrs. Heidt got up and went into an adjoining room, sending her husband a glance as she passed which sobered him considerably for the moment. It was not long, however, before the brilliant dark eyes had made him forget both his dignity and his domestic obligations.

Old Nick was very taciturn that evening as he walked home with Mrs. Rantzau. She, however, laughed and joked, and told stories of "all those silly old men" with such wit and good humour that he was forced to admit it would have been a pity not to have gone to the ball. "Yes, a very jolly evening; very nice indeed, yes."

On the following day the "angelic widow" and her conquests at the ball were the general topic of conversation. The ladies, old and young, married and the reverse, agreed that she was detestable, and were sure there must be something "queer" about her. Mrs. Heidt and Mrs. Knap had a two hours' consultation together, at the end of which it was decided that no effort should be spared to check "that woman's" further encroachment upon local society.

All the men, with exception of Thor Smith and Nachmann, were enthusiastic in praise of the new arrival, and her popularity on that side was assured.

Emilie Rantzau, however, had her own plans, and let people talk as they pleased.

One day she astonished Mrs. Jansen by calling on her with a proposal that the ladies of the town should get up a bazaar in aid of the Seamen's Families Relief Fund. On another occasion she went to Mrs. Heidt, and begged her to support the National Women's Movement; she also invited Governor Abrahamsen to help start a society for helping ex-convicts to turn over a new leaf. Even Klementsen was urged to help her in getting up a subscription for a new altar-piece.

In addition to these more or less philanthropic movements, she arranged excursions to the country round, the beauties of which, she declared, were not appreciated as they should be, and further, obtained the assistance of Consul Jansen in forming a Society for the Furtherance of the Tourist Traffic in Strandvik and Neighbourhood.

The Consul was delighted with the idea, and vowed he must have been blind not to have discovered earlier the natural beauties of the neighbourhood. He gave a grand champagne supper and proposed Mrs. Rantzau's health in a speech, concluding by comparing that lady to "a breath of ocean fresh and free." The toast was received with acclamation.

Altogether, the upper circles of Strandvik society were thrown into a state of unprecedented excitement and activity.

Mrs. Heidt, Mrs. Knap and Mrs. Abrahamsen vied with one another in their efforts to outdo Mrs. Rantzau; they would show her at least that they were as good as she.

It was a fight to the bitter end.

Societies were started, with "evenings" after, where Emilie Rantzau's plans were discussed.

Mrs. Heidt thought and thought till she grew giddy and had to have hot fomentations of an evening; the unusual mental effort had brought on insomnia. Sukkerstad hoped to find in Mrs. Rantzau an ally to the cause of temperance, and paid her a ceremonial call, in company with Watchmaker Rordam, who, a short while back, had suddenly joined the Temperance Association, "Strandvik's Pride." And the pair of them explained to her, with all the eloquence at their command, how greatly her patronage would be appreciated by all.

Emilie Rantzau, however, hardly thought her own interests in the town would be greatly furthered by closer association with Sukkerstad and his circle; on the other hand, it was just as well to keep on good terms with all sections of local society. She therefore informed the deputation that she would think over the matter, and assured them meanwhile of her earnest sympathy with the good cause.

The same day she hurried up to Consul Jansen, switched on her eloquent dark eyes, and suggested that the Temperance Movement was one they ought to support, but that the best way of doing so would be to get up a little subscription, and raise enough for an excursion--a steamer trip for the afternoon, with tea and lemonade. "It would look well, you know, and all that--and get them off our hands for a bit," she added meaningly.

No one could refuse her, and in the course of one afternoon she managed to collect eight pounds, which she dispatched to Sukkerstad and Rordam for the purpose indicated. Sukkerstad was so enthusiastic in his appreciation that he determined to convene a meeting of the committee and propose a vote of thanks and an address.

All the members turned up, with the exception of Rordam, who, in his joy at the eight pounds, had given way to a sudden relapse, which rendered him incapable of further temperance work for the time being.

After some discussion, the committee decided to purchase a portrait of Mrs. Rantzau from the photographer, and hang it up in their hall; this was voted preferable to the address.

Mrs. Heidt was beginning to lag behind; it was impossible to keep pace with a woman of such untiring energy and initiative as Mrs. Rantzau.

Four ladies were gathered one day in her drawing-room, to talk over what was to be done; they could not suffer themselves to be set aside like this. What they wanted was some grand idea, something to vanquish the enemy at a single blow, and show the rest of the town that Emilie Rantzau was not wanted.

It was Mrs. Knap who had the happy thought--the Peace Movement. The cause of universal peace was surely one which nobody in Strandvik could refuse to aid.

Mrs. Abrahamsen was more inclined to concentrate on a bazaar and lottery in aid of the proposed crematorium, which institution she regarded as most desirable from the humane, the sanitary and various other points of view.

Mrs. Knap protested energetically against the idea; she had recently had an accident with a box of matches, which had gone off suddenly and burnt her hand. She for her part would have nothing more to do with burning--for the present, at any rate.

Finally, after some heated argument, it was agreed that a grand harvest festival should be held, the proceeds to be devoted to the cause of universal peace.

Emilie Rantzau was to be kept out of it altogether; they would not have her help in the arrangements, not a contribution--not so much as a bunch of flowers was to come from her; it was to be a festival "for ourselves and by ourselves." The old ladies were already triumphant; this intriguing minx, this person from nowhere, who had tried to force herself into society, should be made to feel their power and her own insignificance. The festival was to be held in the park on Sunday, from five to nine; there would be illuminations, coloured lanterns, fireworks and so on. Singing,--male and female choir,--lecture by a Professor from Christiania, recitation by a famous actor, solos by an amateur and an "amatrice"--it was a programme so magnificent that the whole town was amazed.

Meantime, Mrs. Rantzau sat quietly at home, in her pink morning-gown, pouring out coffee for Nickelsen. She was very quiet and gentle in manner--there was a curious atmosphere about the situation generally.

There lay the morning papers, white, uncrumpled, untouched. The coffee now seethed gently in little regular gasps, like a school-mistress out on a mountaineering expedition; the sun peeped in through the windows, casting gay gleams over Old Nick's white mop of hair and Emilie's raven locks.

"Why shouldn't I be happy the few years I've still to live? And who is to have my money when I'm gone?" Old Nick sat staring absently before him.

She bent over towards him, handing his cup; he felt her soft, curling tresses close to his cheek, and her hand just touched his own.

"Mrs. Rantzau!" he exclaimed, flushing as he spoke; his voice was unsteady.

"Why, how serious you are all of a sudden! You quite frightened me," she said, with a laugh, looking up at him innocently.

"Mrs. Rantzau," he began again, "do you know that poem of Byronson, that--that begins:

"'When blushing blood, In humble mood Turns to the man whose mind is proved, When timid, shy She seeks....'"

"Lord bless me, old boy, spouting poetry so early in the morning! Did you think it was Constitution Day--or the day after?"

Old Nick looked round anything but amiably at Nachmann's unbeautiful face smiling in the doorway; Mrs. Rantzau left the room without a word.

A long and earnest conference ensued between the two men, after which they went out for a long walk together.

Emilie Rantzau felt now that her position was secure; it was only a question of time before she could appear as Mrs. Nickelsen. And inwardly she vowed vengeance on the women who had systematically excluded her from the Peace Festival; she pondered how best to get even with Mrs. Heidt and the rest.

It took a deal of thinking out, but at last she hit upon a way. Quickly she put on her things, and hurried round to her faithful supporter, Consul Jansen.

On Saturday evening, the _Strandvik News_ appeared, and created an indescribable sensation throughout the town by printing immediately under the big announcement of the festival in the park, the following lines:

"_N.B._ _N.B._

"After the conclusion of the festival, an impromptu dance for young people will take place in the Town Hall. Tickets, three shillings each. The surplus will be devoted to the Society for Tending Sick and Wounded in the Field. Mrs. Emma Jansen and Mrs. Emilie Rantzau have kindly consented to act as hostesses."

Mrs. Heidt started up in a fury, and declared it was a disgraceful piece of trickery on the part of that Emilie Rantzau. She could forgive Mrs. Jansen, perhaps, as being too much of a simpleton herself to see through the artful meanness of the whole thing.

On Sunday evening, after the festival, all the young people and a number of the older ones flocked to the Town Hall, where Mrs. Rantzau received them with her most winning smile.