Dry Fish and Wet Part 17

"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 wis.h.i.+ng 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 appet.i.te."

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 pa.s.sed 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.