The Jonas Lie Megapack: 14 Classic Novels and Stories Page 19

  “Farewell, then, Elizabeth! But I shall come back on Saturday. I can’t live for longer without seeing you.”

  “Farewell!” she said, in a rather toneless voice.

  He sprang down to the boat that lay waiting for him below; but she didn’t look after him, and went in with bowed head the opposite way.

  Small things often weigh heavily in the world of impressions. Elizabeth had been overpowered by what seemed to her the magnanimity of his nature when he had declared that he would elevate her into the position of his wife; she felt that it was her worth in his eyes which had outweighed all other considerations. That he should shrink from the inevitable conflict with his family she had on the other hand never for a moment imagined. She had no doubt felt herself that it would be painful, but had stationed herself for the occasion behind his masculine shield. When he now so unexpectedly began to press for time, at first even proposing to be away himself when the matter came on in his home, a feeling took possession of her which in her inward dread she instinctively clutched at as a drowning wretch at a straw, as it seemed to suggest a possibility even now of reconsidering her promise.

  She had a hard and heavy time of it during the two days until Carl returned; and the nights were passed in fever.

  On Saturday evening he came, and the first he greeted was herself: he seemed almost, as she passed in and out of the room quiet and pale, as if he didn’t wish any longer to conceal the relations now existing between them.

  He had with him a letter from his father, which was read aloud when the meal was over. It was dated from a South American port, and mention was made in it of Salvé among others. Off Cape Hatteras they had had stormy weather, and had their topmast carried away. It remained attached by a couple of ropes, and with the heavy sea that was running, was swinging backwards and forwards, as it hung, against the lower rigging, threatening to destroy it. Salvé Kristiansen had come forward in the emergency and ventured aloft to cut it adrift; and as he sat there the whole had gone over the side. He fell with it, but had the luck to be caught in a top-lift as he fell, and so saved his life. “It was pluckily done,” ended the account, “but nevertheless all is not exactly right about him, and he is not turning out as well as he promised.”

  “I never expected very much from him,” remarked Carl, with a contemptuous shrug of his shoulders; “he’s a bad lot.”

  He didn’t see the resentful eyes which Elizabeth fixed upon him for these words, and she sat for a long while afterwards out in the kitchen with her hands in her lap, silent and angry, thinking over them. A resolution was forming in her mind.

  Before they retired to rest, Carl whispered to her—

  “I have written to my father today, and—tomorrow, Elizabeth, is our betrothal-day!”

  Elizabeth was the last in the room, putting it to rights, and when she left she took a sheet of paper and writing materials with her. She lay down on her bed; but about midnight she was sitting up by a light and disfiguring a sheet of paper with writing. It was to this effect:—

  “Forgive me that I cannot be your wife, for my heart is given to another.—Elizabeth Raklev.”

  She folded the paper and fastened it with a pin for want of a wafer, and then quietly opening the door of the room where Madam Beck was sleeping, placed her lips close to her ear, and whispered her name. Madam Beck woke up in some alarm when she saw Elizabeth standing before her fully dressed, and apparently prepared for a journey.

  “Madam Beck,” Elizabeth said, quietly, “I am going to confide something to you, and ask for your advice and assistance. Your step-son has asked me to be his wife. It was last Sunday—and I said yes; but now I have changed my mind, and am going back to my aunt, or farther away still, if you can tell me how; for I am afraid he will follow me.”

  Madam Beck stared at her in mute amazement, and at first put on an incredulous and rather scornful expression; but as she came to feel that it might all be true, she raised herself involuntarily higher up in the bed.

  “But—why do you come with this now, particularly in the middle of the night?” she said, with a suspicious and searching look.

  “Because he has written to his father about it today, and means to tell you and the rest tomorrow.”

  “So—he has already written? That was his object, then, in bringing you into the house here,” Madam Beck added, after a pause, with some bitterness.

  It seemed to strike her then that there was something noble in Elizabeth’s conduct; and looking at her more kindly, she said—

  “Yes, you are right. It is best for you to go away—to some place where he will not find it so easy to reach you.”

  She lapsed into thought again. Then a brilliant idea occurred to her, and she got up and put on her clothes. She had a man’s clearheadedness, and her habits of management stood her in good stead on the present occasion. The Dutch skipper Garvloit, who had married her half-sister, happened just a day or two before to have been inquiring for a Norwegian girl, who would be able to help in the house; and here was just the place for Elizabeth. She had only to go on board his vessel, that lay over at Arendal ready to sail.

  Madam Beck went into the sitting-room at once, and wrote a letter to Garvloit, which she gave to Elizabeth, together with a good round sum of money—wages due, she said; and half-an-hour afterwards Elizabeth was rowing over alone in the quiet moonlight night to Arendal.

  The smooth sound lay full of shining stars between the deep shadows of the ridges on either side, with a light from a mast here and there denoting the presence of vessels under the land. A falling star would now and then leave a stream of light behind it; and she felt a sense of joyous exultation that she could only subdue by rowing hard for long spells. She was like one escaped—relieved from some oppressive burden. And how she looked forward to seeing Marie Forstberg now!

  She arrived in the town before daybreak, and went straight up to her aunt’s, to whom she announced that Madam Beck wished her to take a place in Holland with Garvloit, who was on the point of sailing. She showed her the letter—there was no time to lose.

  The old woman listened to her for a while, and then said abruptly—

  “There has been some difficulty with the lieutenant, Elizabeth?”

  “Yes, aunt, there has,” she replied; “he made love to me.”

  “He did—”

  “And first I said as good as yes. But I don’t mean to have him—and so I told Madam Beck.”

  “So you wouldn’t have him?” was the rejoinder, after an astonished pause; “and the reason, I suppose, was that you would rather have Salvé?”

  “Yes, aunt,” in a low voice.

  “And why in the world didn’t you take him, then?”

  The tears came into Elizabeth’s eyes.

  “Well—as people make their beds so they must lie,” said the old woman, severely—and betook herself then, without any further observation, to the preparation of the morning coffee.

  As Elizabeth went down to the quay, to get a boat to take her out to the merchantman, she looked in at the post-office, where she found Marie Forstberg already up, and busy in the sitting-room in her morning dress. She was greatly astonished when Elizabeth told her of her new destination.

  It was such an advantageous offer, Elizabeth explained—an almost independent place in the house; and Madam Beck had herself advised her to take it.

  But though she used all her wit to keep the other off the scent, Marie Forstberg found a want of connection somewhere, and Elizabeth could see it in her eyes. She asked no further questions, however; and when they took leave of each other they embraced, in tears.

  Out at Tromö the surprise was great when it was found that Elizabeth had gone. Carl Beck had found her letter under the door, but had never imagined that she had left, and had gone out with it in violent agitation of mind and did not c
ome home again till late in the afternoon. Madam Beck had in the meantime confided the matter to her daughters, and they would understand, she said, that not a word of it must be mentioned outside the house.

  Although his eyes sought for her unceasingly, Carl made no express inquiry after her till the evening, and when he heard that she was gone, and was perhaps by that time already under sail for Holland, he sat for awhile as if petrified. Looking scornfully at them then, one after another, he said—

  “If I thought that I had any of you to thank for this, I’d—” here he seized the chair he had been sitting on, dashed it down upon the floor so that it broke, and sprang up-stairs.

  But her letter was unfortunately clear enough—she loved another, and he knew, too, who it was.

  CHAPTER XII

  It was some months after. The Juno lay ready to sail in the roads of Monte Video, where she had taken in hides as part of her home cargo. The remainder, of coffee, she was to load at Rio, and in the meantime she had filled up with coals for that port. She was lying in tropical costume, with awnings over the fore and after deck as a protection against the fierce rays of the sun; and the crew were going about in correspondingly airy clothing, with open shirts and tucked-up canvas trousers, brown and shiny with perspiration, and gasping after every breath. It was the hottest season of the year. The pitch was melting in the chinks between the planking of the decks, and the tar running down her sides.

  They had lain thus for a couple of days, hoping to receive before starting the post, which they had been disappointed in not finding on their arrival. And what a disappointment this can be, only those who have been in one of these ships that go on long voyages can understand. In foreign ports there may be many a wild pleasure to be enjoyed, but the longing to hear from home is the strongest feeling among sailors after all.

  The mate had gone ashore to make one last inquiry before they sailed; and as the jolly-boat came alongside again, it was seen that he had the precious packet in his hand. He sprang up the accommodation-ladder and disappeared aft without a word to where the captain was sitting by a small table with a carafe and glass before him, mopping his bald head in the heat.

  “You’ve got them at last, then,” he said, as the mate laid the packet on the table before him, and retired a few paces while he opened it.

  Almost the first letter that caught his eye was one to himself from his son, and his face brightened. He ran rapidly over the others, making a comment here and there according as he was acquainted with the circumstances of the men to whom they were addressed, and gathering them up in a bundle, handed them over then to the mate, with a cheery “Here you are, Mr. Johnson—letters for every one, from wives and sweethearts, and I don’t know whom besides.”

  The news that the post had come had spread like wildfire over the ship, and by the time the mate began to call out the addresses by the main hatch, the whole crew were assembled, with the exception of a straggler or two who had happened to be aloft, and who were now to be seen hurrying down the ratlines.

  The only one who neither expected news, nor cared apparently whether he received a letter or not, was Salvé Kristiansen. While the parcel was being distributed, he remained standing by the wheel, intent apparently upon watching the movements of the two men who were hoisting up and making fast the jolly-boat. His lips were compressed; and when he gave the men a hand now and then, it was not a very willing one, and was generally accompanied by some bitter or sarcastic remark. His nature since they last sailed from Arendal seemed to have turned to gall; and when the captain had casually mentioned in his letter home that he was not so well satisfied with him, he had had good reason for saying so. There had been all sorts of unpleasantness between them; and if any discontent or difference between himself and the crew prevailed, Salvé was sure to be at the bottom of it. He had found a rancid salt-herring, set up on four legs with a tail, as he was walking on the poop one evening in the moonlight; and as complaints had been recently made about the food, a good deal of which had become worse than bad from the effects of the hot climate, he had at once attributed to Salvé this pointed method of drawing his attention to the subject again. It seemed almost as if he had some cause for bitterness against himself personally; and as he had always treated him with marked favour, he was at a loss to comprehend the reason for it.

  With the exception of the captain, who had retained his seat at the after-end of the poop, Salvé was soon the only human being to be seen on deck. The whole crew had disappeared, and might have been found poring over their letters two and two, or singly, in the most out-of-the-way places, from the main and fore top even to the bowsprit end, where one had erected a pavilion for himself out of a fold of the hauled-down jib.

  Captain Beck’s letter, to judge from his gestures and half-audible exclamations, was not giving him the pleasure which he had anticipated. His whole face, up to the top of his head, had become red as a lobster, and he sat now drumming with one hand on his knee, and casting an occasional fierce look over at Salvé, in the attitude of a man beside himself with anger. At last he brought the hand in which he held the letter down upon the table with a force that sent the decanter and glass flying, and thrusting the fragments aside with his foot, he strode up and down the deck for a couple of minutes and then came towards Salvé as if he meant to say something; and as the latter could very well perceive that it was not going to be anything pleasant, his countenance assumed an expression of defiance accordingly. He changed his mind, though, before he reached him, and turning short round shouted instead—

  “Where is the second mate? Where is the whole watch?” and he looked furiously about him, as if surprised, although he knew very well how they were occupied, and that it had been decided not to weigh anchor until later in the day, when they would have the evening breeze.

  “Ay, ay, sir!” was heard from the mate in the long-boat; and he raised himself and came forward with the letter he had been reading in his hand.

  “Stand by to man the windlass! Pipe all hands!” ordered the captain, and roared the command again gratuitously through the trumpet.

  The crew turned out from their several retreats with sour looks. They had expected to be left alone until after tea-time, when there would have been a general interchange of news on the forecastle; and now there came instead a hail of orders from the speaking-trumpet, as if the captain had all of a sudden become possessed.

  There was already a good deal of discontent prevailing among the crew, both on account of the bad food which they had to put up with, and on account of their leave ashore at Monte Video having been, as they thought, capriciously refused; and it was therefore something more nearly approaching to a howl than a song that was now heard from the capstan and from the party who were hoisting the heavy mainsail. The customary English chorus—

  “Haul the bowline,

  The captain he is growling;

  Haul the bowline,

  The bowline haul”—

  was sung with offensive significance; and though, at the last heavy heave with which the enormous anchor was catted up to the bows, the mate tried to create a diversion in the feeling by a cheery “Saat ‘kjelimen—hal’ paa,” the concluding words of the song—

  “Aa hal i—aa—iaa—

  Cheerily, men!”—

  were delivered in a scornful shout.

  “You’ll have a chance of cooling yourselves presently, my lads,” said Salvé, coming up at the moment from his own heavy work with the cross-jack; “when we weather the point, all the lee-sails have to be set”—and the remark had the effect which he desired of intensifying the prevailing irritation.

  In spite of the vertical heat, the hail of orders from the captain’s trumpet continued, accompanied by reprimands and fault-finding all round, until the crew were nearly in a state of mutiny, and it was not until late in the evening that he showed any signs of exha
ustion.

  His temper had not improved next day. He looked as if he had a determination of blood to the head; and every time he came near Salvé, he glared at him as if it was all he could do to control himself from an outburst of some kind or another. He knew that Salvé had made love to Elizabeth, and had wished to make her presents since she had come into his house; and that the same girl was now to be his son’s wife—the idea was absolutely intolerable!

  At last he could contain himself no longer. Salvé had just deposited a coil of rope aft, and the captain, after watching his movements with evidently suppressed irritation, broke out suddenly, without preface of any kind—

  “You, I believe, had some acquaintance with that—that Elizabeth Raklev I took into my house.”

  Salvé felt the blood rush to his heart. He seemed to know what was coming.

  “The post,” the captain continued, in a bitterly contemptuous tone, “has brought me the delightful intelligence that my son has engaged himself to her.”

  “Congratulate you, captain,” said Salvé. His voice almost failed him, and he was deadly pale, but his eyes flashed with a wild defiance.

  He went forward, and the captain growled after him to himself, “He can have that to fret over now instead of the food;” and as the mate was coming up the cabin stairs at the moment polishing the sextant, he turned away with a look of grim satisfaction to take the altitude.

  When the Juno last sailed from Arendal she had changed two of her crew. One of the new hands was a square-built, coarse-featured, uncouth-looking creature, from the fjord region north of Stavanger, who called himself Nils Buvaagen, but whose name had been changed by the others to Uvaagen (not-awake), on account of his evident predisposition to sleep. He was incredibly naïve and communicative, especially on the subject of his wife and children (of which latter he apparently had his nest full), and had soon become the butt of the ship. Salvé was the only one who ever took his part, and that only because he saw all the others against him; and having also been the means of saving his life when he had been washed overboard one dark night in the English Channel, he had inspired the simple fellow with a perfectly devoted attachment to him.