Part 7

The priest was utterly at a loss. If Enok were the thief, then Rolandsen had only been making a jest of the letter he had sent him. And what for?

The heat was growing unbearable; the three men moved down towards the water, the fire at their heels. They were forced to get into the boat, and then to push off away from land altogether.

“Anyhow, this is Mack’s policy,” said the priest. “We must report what has happened. Row back home, Levion.”

Enok was annihilated, and sat staring gloomily before him. “Ay, let’s go and report it,” he said. “That’s all I want.”

The priest gave him a troubled look. “Do you, I wonder?” he said. And he closed his eyes in horror at the whole affair.

Enok, in his covetousness, had been too simple. He had carefully preserved the insurance paper that he could make nothing of. It was an imposing-looking document, with stamps on, and a great sum of money written there; who could say but he might be able to go away some day and sell it? It was surely too valuable to throw away.

The priest turned and looked back at the fire. Men were at work in the woods, trees were falling, and a broad trench was spreading darkly across. More helpers had come up to join in the work.

“The fire’ll stop of itself,” said Levion.

“Do you think so?”

“Soon as it gets to the birches it’ll stop.”

And the boat with the three men on board rowed in to the _Lensmand’s_.

XII

When the priest came back that evening he had been weeping. Evil and wrong-doing seemed to flourish all about him. He was wounded and humbled with sorrow; now his wife could not even have the shoes she needed so badly. Enok’s rich offering would have to be returned to the giver, as being stolen goods. And that would leave the priest blank and bare.

He went up to his wife at once. But even before he had passed the door of her room, new trouble and despair came to meet him. His wife was sewing. Garments were strewn about the floor, a fork and a dishcloth from the kitchen lay on the bed, together with newspapers and some crochet-work. One of her slippers was on the table. On her chest of drawers lay a branch of birch in leaf and a big grey pebblestone.

He set about, from force of habit, putting things in order.

“You’ve no need to trouble,” said she. “I was going to put that slipper away myself as soon as I’d done my sewing.”

“But how can you sit and work with the place in such a mess?”

At this she was offended, and made no answer.

“What do you want that stone for?” he asked.

“It’s not for anything particular. I just found it on the beach, and it was so pretty.”

He swept up a little heap of faded grass that lay beside the mirror, and put it in a newspaper.

“I don’t know if you want this for anything?” he asked, checking himself.

“No, it’s no good now. It’s sorrel; I was going to use it for a salad.”

“It’s been lying here over a week,” he said. “And it’s made a stain here on the polish.”

“There, that shows you. Polished furniture’s such a nuisance; I can’t see any sense in it myself.”

At that he burst out into an angry laugh. His wife dropped her work and stood up.

He could never leave her in peace, but was always worrying the life out of her with his lack of sense. And so they drifted once more into one of the foolish, fruitless quarrels that had been repeated at intervals through the past four years. The priest had come up in all humility to beg his wife’s indulgence because he could not get her the new shoes at once, but he found it now more and more impossible to carry out his purpose; bitterness overpowered him. Things were all wrong every way at the Vicarage since Jomfru van Loos had left them and his wife had taken over the housekeeping herself.

“And while I think of it, I wish you would use a little sense and thought over things in the kitchen,” he said.

“Sense and thought? And don’t I, then? Do you mean to say things are worse now than before?”

“I found the dust-bin full of good food yesterday.”

“If only you wouldn’t go interfering with everything....”

“I found a dish of cream from the dinner the other day.”

“Well, the maids had been at it, and I didn’t care to use it after them.”

“I found a lot of rice as well.”

“It was the milk had turned, and spoiled it. I couldn’t help that, could I?”

“One day I found a boiled egg, with the shell off, in the dust-bin.”

His wife was silent. Though, indeed, she could have found something to say to that as well.

“We’re not exactly rich enough to waste things,” said the priest. “And you know yourself we have to pay for the eggs. One day the cat was eating an omelette.”

“Only a bit that was left from dinner. But you’re all unreasonable, and that’s the truth; you ought to see a doctor for that temper of yours.”

“I’ve seen you stand holding the cat and pushing a bowl of milk under its nose. And you let the maids see it too. They laugh at you behind your back.”

“They _don’t_. It’s only you that are always nasty and ill-tempered.”

The end of it was that the priest went back to his study, and his wife was left in peace.

At breakfast next morning no one could see from her looks that she had been suffering and wretched. All her trouble seemed charmed away, and not a memory of their quarrel left. Her easy, changeable nature stood her in good stead, and helped to make her life endurable. The priest was touched once more. After all, he might as well have held his peace about these household matters; the new housekeeper would be coming soon, and should be on her way already.

“I’m sorry you’ll hardly be able to get those shoes just yet,” he said.

“No, no,” was all she said.

“Enok’s offering will have to be returned; the money was stolen.”

“What’s that you say?”

“Yes, only fancy--it was he who stole all that money from Mack. He confessed before the _Lensmand_ yesterday.” And the priest told her the whole story.

“Then it wasn’t Rolandsen after all...” said Fruen.

“Oh, Rolandsen--he’s always in mischief some way or other. An incorrigible fellow. But, anyhow, I’m afraid your shoes will have to wait again.”

“Oh, but it doesn’t matter about the shoes.”

That was her way, always kind and unselfish to the last--a mere child. And her husband had never heard her complain about their poverty.

“If only you could wear mine,” he said, softening.

But at that she laughed heartily. “Yes, and you wear mine instead, ha-ha-ha!” And here she dropped his plate on the floor and smashed it; dropped the cold cutlet as well. “Wait a minute; I’ll fetch another plate,” she said, and hurried out.

Never a word about the damage, thought the priest; never so much as entered her head. And plates cost money.

“But you’re surely not going to eat that cutlet?” said his wife when she came in.

“Why, what else should we do with it?”

“Give it to the cat, of course.”

“I’m afraid I can’t afford that sort of thing, if you can,” said he, turning gloomy again. And this might have led to a first-rate quarrel again, if she had not been wise enough to pass it over in silence. As it was, both felt suddenly out of spirits....

Next day another remarkable happening was noised abroad: Rolandsen had disappeared. On hearing the news of the find in the wood, and Enok’s confession, he had exclaimed, “The devil! It’s come too early--by a month, at least.” Børre the organ-blower had heard it. Then, later in the evening, Rolandsen was nowhere to be found, within doors or without. But Børre’s little boat, that was drawn up at the Vicarage landing-place, had disappeared, together with oars and fishing-gear and all that was in it.

Word was sent to Rosengaard at once about the discovery of the true thief, but, strangely enough, Mack seemed in no hurry to come back and take the matter up anew. Doubtless he had his reasons. Rolandsen had cheated him into paying out a reward, and he would now have to pay the same sum over again, which was by no means convenient at the moment. A true Mack, he would never think of acting less open-handedly now than before,--it was a point of honour with him,--but just at the moment he was pressed for money. Mack’s numerous and various undertakings called for considerable disbursements, and there had been no great influx of ready cash for some time past. There was his big consignment of herring still in the hands of the agents at Bergen; prices were low, and Mack was holding. He waited impatiently for the dog-days; after that, the fishing would be definitely at an end, and prices would go up. Also, the Russians were at war, and agriculture in that widespread land would be neglected; the population would need fish to help them out.

Weeks passed, and Mack failed to appear at the factory at all. There was that bakery, too, that he had promised the people at the Vicarage--and what was he to say when Fruen asked him? The foundations were laid, and the ground had been levelled, but no building was being done. Once more folk began to whisper about Mack; how, like as not, he would find it awkward to get on with that bakery place. So strong was this feeling of doubt, that the baker at the _Lensmand’s_ took to drink again. He felt himself secure; a bakery could not be run up in a week; there was time at any rate for a good solid bout. The priest heard of his backsliding, and appealed to him in person, but with little effect; the man felt safe at least for the time being.

And in truth, the priest, who was ever a worker, had much on his hands just now; he spared no effort, but for all that he seemed always behindhand. And now he had lost one of his helpers, the most zealous of them all--Enok to wit. Only a couple of days after that disaster, Levion had come up once more, and showed himself extremely willing to be reinstated.

“Priest can see now, surely, there’s none could be better for the place than me.”

“H’m! You are suspected of having started that fire yourself.”

“’Tis an everlasting thief and scoundrel said that lie!” exclaimed Levion.

“Good! But anyhow, you’re not going to be helper again.”

“Who’s it to be this time, then?”

“No one. I shall manage without.”

That sort of man was the priest; strong and stiff and just in his dealings with all. And he had reason now to mortify himself without pity. The constant discomfort at home and the many difficulties of his office were striving to demoralise him and tempt him to his fall; reprehensible thoughts came into his head at times. Why, for instance, should he not make peace with Levion, who could be useful to him in many little matters by way of return? Furthermore, Mack of Rosengaard had offered his help in any deserving case of actual need. Well and good! He, the priest himself, was in greater need than any of his flock. Why not apply to Mack for help on behalf of a family in distress, and keep the help so given for himself? Then he could get that pair of shoes for his wife. He himself needed one or two little things as well--a few books, a little philosophy; he felt himself withering up in the round of daily toil; his development was checked. Rolandsen, that glib-tongued rogue, had declared it was human beings had made God what He was, and the priest had marked the effect of that upon his own wife. He needed books from which to arm himself for the abolishment of Rolandsen as soon as opportunity arose.

Mack came at last--came, as usual, in splendour and state; his daughter Elise was with him. He called at the Vicarage at once, as a matter of courtesy; moreover, he did not in any way desire to hide away from his promise. Fruen asked about the bakery. Mack regretted that he had been unable to get the work done sooner, but there were very good reasons. It was a flat impossibility to get the building done this year; the foundations must have time to settle first. Fruen gave a little cry of disappointment, but her husband was relieved.

“That’s what the experts tell me,” said Mack. “And what can I do? If we were to build and finish now, then next spring’s thaw might shift the whole foundation several inches. And what would happen to the building above?”

“Yes, of course,” agreed the priest.

But it must not be thought that Mack was in any way discouraged; far from it. The dog-days were past, the herring fishery was at an end, and the agent in Bergen had wired that prices were going up by leaps and bounds. Mack could not help telling them the news at the Vicarage. And in return the priest was able to inform him where Rolandsen was hiding, on an island among the outer reefs, far to the west, like a wild savage. A man and woman had come up to the Vicarage and brought the news.

Mack sent off a boat at once in search.

XIII

The fact of the matter was, that Enok’s confession had taken Rolandsen all unawares. He was free now, but, on the other hand, he had not the four hundred _Daler_ to pay Mack. And so it came about that he took the boat, with Børre’s gear and tackle, and rowed away in the silent night. He made for the outer islands, and that was a six-mile journey, part of it over open sea. He rowed all night, and looked about in the morning till he found a suitable island. Here he landed; wild birds of all sorts flew up about him.

Rolandsen was hungry; his first thought was to gather a score of gull’s eggs and make a meal. But he found the eggs all addled. Then he rowed out fishing, and had more luck. And now he lived on fish from day to day, and sang and wore the time away, and was lord of that island. When it rained, he had a first-rate shelter under an overhanging rock. He slept on a grassy patch at night, and the sun never set.

Two weeks, three weeks, passed. Rolandsen grew desperately thin from his wretched mode of life, but his eyes grew harder and harder from sheer determination, and he would not give in. His only fear was that someone might come and disturb him. A few nights back there had come a boat, a man and a woman in it--a pair out gathering down. They would have landed on the island, but Rolandsen was by no means that way inclined. He had sighted them afar off, and had time to work himself up into a fury, so that when they arrived, he made such threatening play with Børre’s tiny anchor that the couple rowed away in fright. Then Rolandsen laughed to himself, and a most uncomely fiend he was to look at, with his hollow cheeks.

One morning the birds made more noise than usual, and Rolandsen awoke, though it was still so early as to be almost night. He sees a boat making in, already close at hand. It was always a trouble with Rolandsen that he was so slow to anger. Here was this boat coming in, and its coming highly inconvenient to him just then, but by the time he had worked up an adequate rage, the men had landed. If only they had given him time, he might have done something to stop them; might have pelted them to rags with stones from the beach.

They were two of Mack’s folk from the factory, father and son. They stepped ashore, and “_Goddag!_” said the older one.

“I’m not the least little pleased to see you, and I’ll do you a hurt,” said Rolandsen.

“Ho, and how’ll you do that?” said the man, with a look at his son, but not very bold for all that.

“Throttle you dead, for instance. What do you say to that little plan?”

“’Twas Mack himself that sent us to find you here.”

“Of course it was Mack himself. I know well enough what he wants.”

Then the younger man put in a word, and this was that Børre the organ-blower wanted his boat and gear.

Rolandsen shouted bitterly at that. “Børre! Is the fellow mad? And what about me then? Here am I living on a desert island; I must have a boat to get to folk, and gear to fish with, if I’m not to starve. Tell him that from me!”

“And then there was a word from the new man at the station, how there’s telegrams waiting for you there. Important.”

Rolandsen jumped. Already! He asked a question or so, which they answered, and thereafter he made no further objection, but went back with them. The younger man rowed Børre’s boat, and Rolandsen sat in the other.

There was a provision-box in the forepart of the boat, that waked in his mind impertinent hopes of food. He was on the point of asking if they had brought anything to eat with them, but restrained himself, out of sheer lordliness and pride, and tried to talk it off.

“How did Mack know I was here?”

“’Twas the news came. A man and a woman saw you here one night; you frightened them a deal.”

“Well, what did they want here anyway? And I’ve hit on a new fishing-ground there by the island. And now I’m leaving it.”

“How long’d you thought to be staying there?”

“’Tis no business of yours,” said Rolandsen sharply. His eyes were fixed on that provision-box, but he showed himself as ready to burst, out of sheer pride, and said, “It’s more than commonly ugly, that box there. Shouldn’t think anyone’d care to keep food in a thing like that. What d’you use it for?”

“If only I’d all the butter and cheese and pork and butcher’s meat’s been in that box, I’d not go hungry for years to come,” answered the man.

Rolandsen cleared his throat, and spat over the side.

“When did those telegrams come?” he asked.

“Eh, that’ll be some time back.”

Half-way across, the two boats closed in and lay alongside; father and son brought out their meal from the box, and Rolandsen looked all other ways. Said the old man, “We’ve a bite of food here, if as you’re not too proud.” And they passed the whole box across.

But Rolandsen waved it away, and answered:

“I’m fed, no more than half an hour since. As much as I could eat. That cake of bread there looks uncommonly nicely done, though. No, no, thanks; I was only looking at it ... smells nice, too....”

And Rolandsen chattered away, looking to every other side.

“We’re never short of plenty these parts, and that’s the truth,” he went on. “I’ll wager now there’s not a hut nor shed but’s got its leg of meat hung up. But there’s no need to be always eating so much; ’tis a beastly fashion.”

He writhed uncomfortably on his seat, and went on:

“How long I was going to stay there, d’you say? Why, I’d have stayed till the autumn, to see the shooting stars. I’ve a great fancy for such things; it tickles me to see whole planets go to pieces.”

“There you’re talking more than I know of.”

“Planets, man--stars. Butting into one another all across the sky. ’Tis a wild and wicked sight.”

But the men went on eating, and at last Rolandsen could contain himself no longer. “What pigs you are to eat, you two! Stuffing all that into you at once--I never saw....”

“We’ve done,” said the old man quietly enough.

The boats pushed apart, and the two men bent to their oars. Rolandsen lay back and tried to sleep.

It was afternoon when they got in, and Rolandsen went up to the station at once for his telegrams. There were encouraging messages about his invention; a high bid for the patent rights from Hamburg, and a still higher one from another firm through the bureau. And Rolandsen, in his incomprehensible fashion, must needs run off to the woods and stay there alone for quite a while before he thought of getting a bite to eat. The excess of feeling made him a boy again; he was as a child, with folded hands.

XIV

He went to Mack’s office, and went thither as a man come to his own, ay, as a lion. There would be strange feelings in the Mack family at seeing him again. Elise, maybe, would congratulate him, and kindliness from her would be a joy.

But he was disappointed. He came upon Elise outside the factory, talking to her brother; she paid so little heed to him that his greeting all but passed unanswered. And the pair went on talking as before. Rolandsen would not disturb them by asking for old Mack, but went up to the office and knocked at the door. It was locked. He went down again and said, “Your father sent for me; where shall I find him?”

The two were in no hurry to answer, but finished what they had to say. Then said Frederik, “Father’s up at the watergate.”

“Might have said that when I came up first,” thought Rolandsen. Oh, they were all indifferent to him now; they had let him go up to the office without a word.

“Couldn’t you send word to him?” asked Rolandsen.

Said Frederik slowly, “When father’s up at the watergate, he’s there because he’s business there.”

Rolandsen looked at the two with eyes of wonder.

“Better come again later on,” said Frederik.

“If I come a second time, it’ll be to say I shan’t come a third.”

Frederik shrugged his shoulders.

“There’s father,” said Elise.

Old Mack came walking towards them. He frowned, spoke sharply, and walked on ahead of Rolandsen to the office. All ungraciousness. Then he said:

“Last time, I asked you to sit down. This time, I don’t.”

“No, no,” said Rolandsen. But he was puzzled at the other’s angry manner.

But Mack found no pleasure in being harsh. He had power over this man, who had done him a wrong, and he preferred to show himself too proud to use it. He said, “You know, of course, what has happened here?”

Said Rolandsen, “I have been away. Things may have happened that you know of, but not I.”

“I’ll tell you how it is, then,” said Mack. And Mack was now as a minor God, with the fate of a human creature in his hand. “You burnt up that insurance policy, I think you said?”

“Well, not exactly,” said Rolandsen. “To tell the truth....”

“Here it is,” said Mack, and brought out the document. “The money has been found, too. The whole lot was found wrapped up in a kerchief that did _not_ belong to you.”

Rolandsen made no protest.

“It belonged to Enok,” Mack went on.

Rolandsen could not help smiling at the other’s solemn manner, and said jestingly, “Ah, now I shouldn’t be surprised if it was Enok was the thief.”

Mack found this tone by no means to his taste; it was lacking in respect. “You’ve made a fool of me,” he said, “and cheated me out of four hundred _Daler_.”

Rolandsen, with his precious telegrams in his pocket, still found it hard to be serious. “Let’s talk it over a little,” said he.

Then said Mack sharply, “Last time, I forgave you. This time, I don’t.”

“I can pay you back the money.”

Mack turned on him angrily. “The money’s no more to me now than it was then. But you’re a cheat; do you realise that?”

“If you’ll allow me, I’ll explain.”

“No.”

“Well, now, that’s all unreasonable,” said Rolandsen, still smiling. “What do you want with me at all, then?”

“I’m going to have you locked up,” said Mack.

Frederik came in, and went to his place at the desk. He had heard the last words, and saw his father now, for once, in a state of excitement.

Rolandsen thrust his hand into his pocket, where the telegrams lay, and said, “Won’t you accept the money, then?”

“No,” said Mack. “You can hand it over to the authorities.”

Rolandsen stood there still. Nothing of a lion now; properly speaking, he had made a big mistake, and might be put in prison. Well and good! And when Mack looked at him inquiringly, as if to ask what he might be standing there for, he answered, “I’m waiting to be locked up.”

“Here?” Mack looked at him in astonishment. “No, you can go along home and get ready.”

“Thanks. I’ve some telegrams to send off.”

Mack turned gentler all at once. After all, he was not a savage. “I’ll give you to-day and to-morrow to get ready,” he said.

Rolandsen bowed, and went out.

Elise was still standing outside; he passed by her this time without a sign. What was lost was lost; there was no helping it now.

But Elise called to him softly, and he stopped, stood gazing at her, shaken and confused in his surprise.

“I--I was only going to say ... it’s nothing serious, is it?”

Rolandsen could make nothing of this; could not understand why she had suddenly chosen to speak to him at all. “I’ve got leave to go home,” he said. “To send off some telegrams.”

She came up close to him, her breast heaving; she looked round, as if in fear of something. Then she said:

“Father was angry, I suppose. But it’ll soon pass off, I’m sure.”