The Pilot and His Wife (2024)

Produced by Clare Boothby, Jim Wiborg and the Online Distributed

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TRANSLATED FROM THE NORWEGIAN OF

JONAS LIE

BY

G.L. TOTTENHAM

WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONSEDINBURGH AND LONDONMDCCCLXXVII

THE PILOT AND HIS WIFE.

CHAPTER I.

On the stern, pine-clad southern coast of Norway, off thepicturesquely-situated town of Arendal, stand planted far out into thesea the white walls of the Great and Little Torungen Lighthouses, eachon its bare rock-island of corresponding name, the lesser of whichseems, as you sail past, to have only just room for the lighthouse andthe attendant's residence by the side. It is a wild and lonelysituation,—the spray, in stormy weather, driving in sheets against thewalls, and eagles and sea-birds not unfrequently dashing themselves todeath against the thick glass panes at night; while in winter allcommunication with the land is very often cut off, either by drift orpatchy ice, which is impassable either on foot or by boat.

These, however, and others of the now numerous lights along thatdangerous coast, are of comparatively recent erection. Many persons nowliving can remember the time when for long reaches the only lighting wasthe gleam of the white breakers themselves. And the captain who hadpassed the Oxö light off Christiansand might think himself lucky if hesighted the distant Jomfruland up by Kragerö.

About a score of years before the lighthouse was placed on LittleTorungen there was, however, already a house there, if it could bedignified by that name, with its back and one side almost up to the eaveof the roof stuck into a heap of stones, so that it had the appearanceof bending forward to let the storm sweep over it. The low entrance-dooropened to the land, and two small windows looked out upon the sea, andupon the boat, which was usually drawn up in a cleft above the sea-weedoutside.

When you entered, or, more properly speaking, descended into it, therewas more room than might have been expected; and it contained sundryarticles of furniture, such as a handsome press and sideboard, which noone would have dreamt of finding under such a roof. In one corner therestood an old spinning-wheel covered with dust, and with a smoke-blackenedtuft of wool still hanging from its reel; from which, and from othersmall indications, it might be surmised that there had once been a womanin the house, and that tuft of wool had probably been her last spin.

There sat now on the bench by the hearth a lonely old man, of aflint-hard and somewhat gloomy countenance, with a mass of white hairfalling over his ears and neck, who was generally occupied with somecobbling work, and who from time to time, as he drew out the thread,would make some remark aloud, as if he thought he still had the partnerof his life for audience. The look askance over his brass spectacleswith which he greeted any casual stranger who might come into the househad very little welcome in it, and an expression about his sunken mouthand sharp chin said plainly enough that the other might state hisbusiness at once and be gone. He sought no company; and the only time hehad ever been seen at church was when he came rowing over to Tromö withhis wife's body in her coffin. When the pastor sprinkled earth upon it,it was observed that the tears streamed down his cheeks, and it was longafter dark before he quitted the churchyard to return. He had become aproverb for obstinacy for miles beyond his own residence; and people whodealt with him for fish in the harbour, if they once began to bargain,were as likely as not to see him without a word just quietly row away.

All that was known further about "Old Jacob," as he was called, was thathe had once been a pilot, and that he had had a son who had taken todrinking, through whose fault it had been eventually that the father hadlost his certificate; and it was thought that on the occasion inquestion the father had taken the son's blame upon himself. Since thenhe had shunned society, and had retired with his wife to his presenthabitation, whither, after their son was drowned, they had brought theirlittle orphan granddaughter, who now was his sole companion. His onlyostensible means of living were by shoemaking, and by fishing, theproduce of which he generally disposed of to passing ships, and, duringthe earlier period of his sojourn there, by shooting occasionally. Butit was understood that he received a small regular contribution fromseveral of the pilots, certificated or otherwise, of the district, forkeeping a fire alight on his hearth during the dark autumn nights, andso giving them, by the light from his two windows, something to steer bywhen they arrived off the coast after nightfall. Whether the light wasshown for their benefit particularly, or whether it was not ratherintended for the guidance of smuggling vessels standing in under coverof the night to land their cargoes, it was not their business toinquire. Its friendly assistance was, at all events, not unacknowledgedby these latter, and very acceptable presents, in the shape of kegs ofspirits, bags of coffee, tobacco, meal, and so forth, would, from timeto time, come rolling into the old man's room, so that upon the whole,he was well-to-do enough out there upon his rock.

Of late years he had fallen into feeble health, and found it not so easyto row the long distance over to land. Even in his best days he had,owing to an old injury to one of his legs, found some difficulty ingetting down to the boat; and now, therefore, he sat during the greaterpart of the day over the hearth, in his woolen jacket and leatherbreeches, with his indoor work. Now and then, when his granddaughter—achild with a thick crop of hair falling about her ears, and a rough dogconstantly at her heels—would burst into the house with all thefreshness of the outside air blowing round her, as it were, and deliverherself of her intelligence, he might be drawn, perhaps, to the windowto look out over the sea, and afterwards, like a growling bear disturbedfrom its lair, even follow her with some difficulty out of the door withthe spyglass. There he would station himself, so as to use her shoulderas a rest for his shaking hand, and with his never-ceasing directionsand growling going on behind her neck, she would do her best to fix theglass on the desired object. His crossness would then disappear, littleby little, in their joint speculation as to what ship it could be, or inwhatever remarks it might suggest; and after giving his decision, theold man would generally hobble in again.

He was really very proud of his granddaughter's cleverness. She coulddistinguish with her naked eye as clearly as he could through the glass.She never made a mistake about the craft, large or small, that belongedto that part of the coast, and could, besides, say to a nicety, whatsort of master each had. Her superiority of sight she asserted, too,with a tyranny to which he made no resistance, although it might havetried a temper many degrees more patient than his was.

One day, however, she was at a loss. They made out a crescent on theflag, and this caused even the old man a moment's astonishment. But hedeclared then, for her information, shortly and decisively, that it wasa "barbarian."

This satisfied her for a moment. But then she asked—

"What is a barbarian, grandfather?"

"It is a Turk."

"Yes, but a Turk?"

"Oh! it's—it's—a Mohammedan—"

"A what!—a Moham—"

"A Mohammedan—a robber on board ship."

"On board ship!"

He was not going to give up his ascendancy in the matter, hard as shepushed him; so he bethought him of a pack of old tales there-anent, andwent on to explain drily—

"They go to the Baltic—to Russia—to salt human flesh."

"Human flesh!"

"Yes, and sometimes, too, they seize vessels in the open sea and dotheir salting there."

She fixed a pair of large, terrified eyes on him, which made the old mancontinue—

"And it is especially for little girls they look. That meat is thefinest, and goes by tons down to the Grand Turk."

Having played this last trump, he was going in again, but was stopped byher eager question—

"Do they use a glass there on board?" And when he said they did, sheslipped quickly by him through the door, and kept cautiously within aslong as the vessel was to be seen through the window-pane on thehorizon.

The moods of the two were for once reversed. The old man looked very slyover his work, whilst she was quiet and cowed. Once only she broke outangrily—

"But why doesn't the king get rid of them? If I was captain of aman-of-war, I'd—"

"Yes, Elizabeth, if you were captain of a man-of-war!—what then?"

The child's conceptions apparently reached no further than such mattersas these as yet. She had seen few human beings as she grew up, and inrecent years, after her grandmother's death, she and her grandfather hadbeen the only regular inhabitants of the island. Every now and thenthere might perhaps come a boat on one errand or another, and a coupleof times she had paid a visit to her maternal aunt on land, at Arendal.Her grandfather had taught her to read and write, and with what shefound in the Bible and psalm-book, and in 'Exploits of Danish andNorwegian Naval Heroes,' a book in their possession, she had in a mannerlived pretty much upon the anecdotes which in leisure moments she couldextract from that grandfather, so chary of his speech, about his sailorlife in his youth.

They had besides, in the little inner room, a small print, without aframe, of the action near the Heather Islands, in which he had takenpart. It represented the frigate Naiad, with the brigs Samso, Kiel, andLolland, in furious conflict with the English ship of the line Dictator,which lay across the narrow harbour with the brig Calypso, and waspounding the Naiad to pieces. The names of the ships were printedunderneath.

On the print there was little to be seen but mast-heads andcannon-mouths, and a confusion of smoke, but in this had the child livedwhole years of her life; and many a time in fancy had she stood thereand fought the Englishman. Men-of-war and their officers had become thehighest conception of her fancy, and the dearest wish of her heart wasthat a man-of-war might some day pass so near to Torungen that she wouldbe able to see distinctly everything on board.

CHAPTER II.

After old Jacob had fallen into ill health, lighterman Kristiansen usedto come out oftener to Torungen with provisions and other necessaries;and his visits now became periodical.

He was accompanied one autumn by his son Salvé, a black-haired,dark-eyed, handsome lad, with a sharp, clever face, who had worked inthe fishing-boats along the coast from his childhood almost, and had, infact, been brought up amongst its sunken rocks and reefs and breakers.He was something small in stature, perhaps; but what he wanted inrobustness he made up in readiness and activity—qualities which stoodhim in good stead in the many quarrels into which his too ready tonguewas wont to bring him. He was eighteen years old at this time; had beenalready engaged as an able seaman; and was in great request at theSandvigen and Vraangen dances,—a fact of which he was perfectly wellaware. Old Jacob's granddaughter, being a little girl of only fourteenyears of age, was of course altogether beneath his notice, and he didn'tcondescend to speak to her. He merely delivered himself of the witticismthat she was like a heron; and with her thick, checked woollenhandkerchief tied with the ends behind her waist, the resemblance wasnot so very far-fetched. At any rate, he declared on the way home thatsuch a specimen of womankind he, for his part, had never come acrossbefore, and that he would give anything to see her dancing in the publicroom with her thin arms and legs—it would be like a grasshopper.

The next time he came, she took out her grandfather's watch in itssilver case and showed it to him, and some conversation passed betweenthem. His first impression of her was that she was stupid. She askedquestions about every sort of thing, and seemed to think that he mustknow everything. And finally, she wanted to know what it was like onshore among the great folk of Arendal, and particularly how the ladiesbehaved. It afforded him much amusem*nt at the time to see with whatsimple credulity she took in everything he chose to invent on thesubject; but after he had left he was not sure that he wasn't sorry forwhat he had done, and at the same time he made the discovery that thegirl, in her way, was anything but silly.

His remorse was to be brought home to him presently, for old Jacob hadhad duly recounted to him over again all his co*ck-and-bull stories, andwas in high dudgeon. When he came again the old man was very snappish tohim, and he found it so unpleasant in the house that he made all thehaste he could to get his business done. While he was thus occupied, thelittle girl told him all about the Naiad, and the part her grandfatherhad taken in the action. Salvé, who was ruffled, and thought the old manhad been an ill-mannered old dog, followed the relation from time totime with a sneering remark, which in her eagerness she didn't notice,or didn't understand. But when he had finished what he had to do, hegave vent to his feelings in a way she did understand,—he laughedincredulously.

"Old Jacob there on board the Naiad! This is the first time anybody everheard of it."

The individual in question unfortunately came out at the moment to seethe boat off, and turning, to him, red with anger, she cried—

"Grandfather! he doesn't believe you were on board the Naiad that time!"

The old man answered at first as if he didn't deign to enter upon anycontroversy on the subject—

"Oh, I suppose it's only little girls' prattle again."

But whether it was wounded vanity, or a sudden access of irritationagainst the lad, or that his eye fell upon his granddaughter standingthere, so evidently incensed and resentful, he flared up the nextmoment, and thrusting his huge fist under the youngster's nose, burstout—

"If you want to know all about it, you young swabber, I may tell you Istood on the Naiad's gun-deck with better folk than you are everlikely to come across"—he stamped his foot here as if he had the deckunder him—"when, with one broadside from the Dictator, the three mastsand bowsprit were shot away, and the main deck came crashing down uponthe lower;"—the last sentence was taken from 'Exploits of Danish andNorwegian Naval Heroes,' and the old man was as proud of these lines ashe would have been of a medal.

"When the crash came," he pursued, always in the same posture, and inthe manner of the sacred text, "he who stands here and tells the talehad but just time to save himself by leaping into the sea through agun-port."

But he threw off then the trammels of the text, and continued inpropriâ personâ, violently gesticulating with his fists, and steadilyadvancing all the time, while Salvé prudently retreated before hisadvance down to the boat.

"We don't deal in lies and fabricate stories out here like you, youyoung whipper-snapper of a ship's cub; and if it wasn't for your father,who has sense enough to rope's-end you himself, I'd lay a stick acrossyour back till you hadn't a howl left in you."

With this finale of the longest speech to which he had given vent forthirty years perhaps, he turned with a short nod to the father, and wentinto the house again.

Elizabeth was miserable that Salvé should go away like this, without somuch as deigning to say good-bye to her. And her grandfather was crossenough himself; for he was afraid that he had done something foolish,and broken with the lighterman.

CHAPTER III.

Salvé came out to the rock again the next autumn, after a voyage to
Liverpool and Havre.

At first he was rather shy, although his father and old Jacob Torungenhad in the interval, in spite of that little affair of the previousyear, been on the best of terms. The white bear, however, as he calledhim, seemed to have altogether forgotten what had passed; and with thegirl he was very easily reconciled—she had learnt now not to telleverything to her grandfather.

Whilst the lighterman and old Jacob enjoyed a heart-warming glasstogether in the house, Salvé carried the things up to the cellar,Elizabeth following him up and down every time, and the conversationmeanwhile going round all the points of the compass, so to speak. Aftershe had asked him about Havre de Grace, where he had been, and aboutAmerica, where he had not been,—if his captain's wife was as fine as aman-of-war captain's; and then if he wouldn't like one day to marry afine lady,—she wanted at last to know, from the laughing sailor lad, ifthe officers' wives were ever allowed to be with them in war.

Her face had of late acquired something wonderfully attractive in itsexpression—such a seriousness would come over it sometimes, althoughshe continued as childlike as ever; and such eyes as hers were, at allevents in Salvé's experience, not common. At any rate, after this, heinvariably accompanied his father upon these expeditions.

The last time he was out there he told her about the dances on shore atSandvigen, and took care to give her to understand that the girls mademuch of him there—but he was tired now of dancing with them.

She was very curious on this subject, and extracted from him that he hadhad two tremendous fights that winter. She looked at him in terror, andasked rather hesitatingly—

"But had they done anything to you?"

"Oh, no! all dancing entertainments have a little extra dance like thatto wind up with. They merely wanted to dance with the girl I had askedfirst."

"Is it so dangerous, then? What sort of a girl was she?—I mean, whatwas her name?"

"Oh, one was called Marie, and the other was Anne—Herluf Andersen'sdaughter. They were pretty girls, I can tell you. Anne had a whitebrooch and earrings, and danced more smoothly than ever you saw a cuttersail. Mate George said the same."

The upshot of this conversation was, that she found out that the girlsin Arendal, and in the ports generally where he had touched, were allwell dressed; and the next time he returned from Holland, he promised hewould bring with him a pair of morocco-leather shoes with silver bucklesfor her.

With this promise they parted, after she had allowed him—and that theremight be no mistake, twice over—to take the accurate measure of herfoot; and there were roses of joy in her cheeks, as she called after himto be sure and not forget them.

The year after Salvé came with the shoes. There were silver buckles inthem, and they were very smart; but if they were, they had cost him morethan half a month's pay.

Elizabeth was more carefully dressed now, and might almost be calledgrown up. She hesitated about accepting the shoes, and didn't askquestions about everything as she used to do. Nor was she so willing tostand and talk with him alone by the boat—she liked to have him upwithin hearing of the others.

"Don't you see how high the sea is running?" he said, and tried topersuade her that the boat would be dashed to pieces on the rocks. Butshe saw that it wasn't true, and went up with a little toss of her headalone. He followed her.

She must have learned all this in Arendal, where in the course of theautumn she had been confirmed, and where she had lived with her aunt.But she had grown marvellously handsome in that time—so much so,indeed, that Salvé was almost taken aback when he saw her; and when theysaid good-bye, it was no longer in the old laughing tones, but with someslight embarrassment on his side—he didn't seem to know exactly howmatters lay between them.

After that she filled his head so completely that he had not a thoughtfor anything else.

CHAPTER IV.

The old Juno, to which Salvé belonged, was lying at that time atSandvigen, and was only waiting for a north-east wind to come out. Shewas a square-rigged vessel, with a crew of nineteen hands all told,which had plied for many years in American waters, and off and on in theNorth Sea, and was reckoned at the time one of Arendal's largest craft.Her arrival or departure was quite an event for the town andneighbourhood; and to have a berth in her was considered among thesailors of the district a very high honour indeed—the more so that hermaster and principal owner, Captain Beck, was a particularly good chiefto serve under, and a lucky one to boot.

When at last, between ten and eleven o'clock one morning, she weighedanchor, and before a light north-westerly breeze, with her small sailsset, glided out to sea, the quays were crowded with spectators, themajority of the crew belonging to the place, and it being generallyknown that they were bound on a longer voyage than usual. On board shehad with her still the captain's son, Carl Beck, a smart young navalofficer, with his sister and a small party of their friends, who meantto land out on the Torungens in the sailing-boat they had in tow. Theywished to remain with her as long as possible, and for the purpose hadmade up a party to the islands, where the gentlemen proposed to shootsome of the sea-fowl, which are to be found out there on the rocks inswarms at the spring season of the year on their passage north along thecoast.

It was about four o'clock when they passed Little Torungen; and as therewere swells then bursting in white jets upon the reefs, and a line ofdark fire-fringed clouds about the sunset, which looked like heavyweather coming up, the pleasure party determined to leave the vesselhere, instead of going on, as they had intended, to the larger of thetwo islands.

As they went over the side Salvé Kristiansen was standing out on theforecastle gazing eagerly over to where the barren mass of rock lay likea dipping hull in the distance, bathed in the evening sun, and with afringe of foam round its base; and he could see old Jacob'sgranddaughter standing by the wall of the house with the glass. He hadchosen on purpose a conspicuous place, and stood with his back againstthe stay, so heavy of heart and sad at having to go away, that it wouldhave taken very little to make him burst into tears. It seemed to havedawned upon him all of a sudden that he was in love.

To try whether it was upon him that she was directing the glass, or atthe unusual discharging of freight into the sail-boat, he waved his hat,and his whole face lighted up with joy as he saw her return his signal.He took off his hat again, and received another wave of the glass inreply.

He stood there then straining his eyes abstractedly in the direction ofthe rock until it disappeared behind them in the gathering twilight. Hehad been inspirited for the whole voyage; and the first thing he shoulddo when they arrived at Boston would be to buy a dress and a ring; andwhen he came home he determined that his first business should be tomake an expedition to the island, and put a certain question to acertain person whom he knew out there.

He was roused from his abstraction by the boatswain bawling out hisname, and asking if he was going to sleep there, and whether he wantedsomething to wake him up. The order had been given to make all snug forthe night, as the breeze was freshening.

The watches had been set at noon, and the starboard and larboard watchtold off, as customary on the first day a vessel goes to sea. Salvé hadthe middle watch; and by that time the sea was running high, and theywere plunging through the darkness under a double-reefed mainsail, themoon every now and then clearing an open space in the storm—clouds thatwere driving like smoke before it, so that he could fitfully distinguishobjects over the deck, even to the look-out man's looming figure outupon the forecastle.

Upon the capstan bar sat a sailor in oilskin clothes, who had probablybeen on shore the previous night and not closed his eyes, and who wasmaking great efforts to keep awake. His head, however, would still keepnodding; and from time to time he stood up and tried to keep himselfwarm by exercising his arms. He sang, or more often took up afresh uponeach recovery of consciousness a verse of a half-Swedish ballad about a"girl so true," that he wished he then had by his side, for the timewithout her seemed so long. Now and then the spray of a sea would bringhim more sharply to himself, but it did not last long; and so the ditty,which was melancholy to the last degree, would begin afresh.

Salvé was far too restless to have any desire to sleep, and as he pacedto and fro by the fore-hatch, lost in his dreams, and listened to thesong, it seemed to him a most touching one.

The nodding sailor little thought that he was performing before adeeply-moved audience.

CHAPTER V.

The party, meanwhile, that had left the ship, were passing the nightwith old Jacob on Torungen. They had tried first to beat out to thelarger island, but the sea had risen, darkness had set in, and it hadsoon become evident that it was no longer pleasure-sailing for a boatwith ladies in it. They had determined, therefore, rather than go aboutfor home, and lose the whole sporting expedition, which was to havelasted for two or three days, to spend the night on Little Torungen andsee what the morning would do for them.

Great was old Jacob's astonishment, it may readily be supposed, whenthere came in the late evening a knocking at the door, and he saw by thelight from the hearth no less than six grand folk come streaming in,with two ladies amongst them. He shaded his eyes with his hand, andlooked at them in mute amazement.

As for Elizabeth, if it had been a train of fairies that had suddenlyappeared, they could not have occasioned her more terror and curiosity.It was getting near bedtime, and she had been sitting half-asleep overthe fire, and perhaps her suddenly awakened excitement lent a more thanusual animation and attraction to a pair of eyes and a face that wouldnowhere have passed unnoticed; for Carl Beck, who was at the head of theparty, seemed positively fascinated, and could not take his eyes offher, until, reddening with confusion, she instinctively stretched outher hand for her bodice, that lay beside her on the bench.

"Good evening, Jacob, old boy," cried Carl, in the frank, off-handmanner that became him so well, going up to the old fellow, and layinghis hand cordially on his shoulder. "I'm afraid we shall be verytroublesome to you, such a large party; but we want you to let us stayhere till morning, till we see if the weather moderates a bit. Wedaren't go driving out in the dark to Great Torungen, on account ofthese women folk that we have on board,"—and he pointed, jokingly, tohis sister and her friend.

"I see you have to deal with womankind too, so you know what it is."

The old man was apparently not insensible to this genial way of dealingwith him. He rose from his seat and made room at the fire, begging thatthey would put up with what accommodation he had to offer, and tellingElizabeth at the same time to go out for more wood.

While the party gathered round the fire, and made themselves ascomfortable as they could, Carl Beck was outside with the boatmen,seeing about having the provisions brought up. He came in again withElizabeth, also with an armful of wood. Throwing it down, laughing, hecried—

"Now for a 'bowl,' as our friends the Swedes have it. But first, outwith the food."

There was no scarcity of eatables, which were discussed amid a runningfire of conversation upon every kind of topic; and then came the "bowl,"a composition of various strong and spicy ingredients, of which Carl hadthe secret, and which finally was lighted, and ladled into the glasseswhilst the blue flame was burning.

Carl Beck was the life of the party; and very well he looked as he satthere astride over the bench, with his glass in his hand, and hisofficer's jacket with its anchor-buttons thrown open, and sang first oneand then another of the rollicking drinking-songs that were then invogue, the others joining in the chorus. He gave them, then, a cheerysailor-song, which brought in its train a series of anecdotes from therecent war.

Old Jacob, under the influence of the prevailing good-fellowship and thegood cheer, had become uncommonly lively for him, and would even put ina word now and then. But every attempt to make him tell a story himselffailed. Only when the action at the Heather Islands came up fordiscussion for a while did he come out with a bit of a yarn, as hecalled it.

"Yes," he said, putting carefully down the glass that was handed to him,"it was a great battle, was that. The country lost a fine ship there,and many a brave lad to boot. But God's curse hangs over the man thatpiloted the Englishman in to the Sand Islands—although none here, whilehe was alive, knew his name. It was said he soon after made an end ofhimself through remorse, like Judas Iscariot. However that may be, atthe mouth of the channel there is a flat sunk rock that a man in hissea-boots can stand on at low water, and there they see him on moonlightnights making piteous signs for help, until the water at last comes overhis head, and he disappears. God help the man that'll row out tohim—it's always foul weather when he is to be seen."

"Have you ever seen him yourself, Jacob?" asked Carl Beck.

"I'll not say that I have, and I'll not say that I haven't. But I knowthat the last time I was off those islands, we had such tremendousweather that we thought ourselves lucky in making any port at all."

For a while every one was busied with the thoughts which Jacob's recitalhad suggested, and there was a solemn pause, which was broken by CarlBeck's striking up another song to keep off sleep:—

"Before the wind and a flowing sail,
Vessels for every port!
In letters of gold a dear girl's name
On every stern inwrought!
The vessel may sail the world around,
But with her the girls will still be found!
Hurrah! then, boys, for the one of your mind,
That never, oh, never, you'll leave behind."

He repeated the last couplet with a gay inclination of his glass to theladies, who were sitting now tired and huddled together on the bench,and over their heads to Elizabeth, who was standing in the background,awake enough for both of them. The light from the fire fell upon hishandsome brown face, with the raven black curly hair, and the dark eyesthat it was said he had inherited from his recently deceased mother, whowas from Brest; and with his flow of animal spirits, that sufficed forthe whole party almost, he certainly was as manly and handsome a lad asyou would wish to meet.

The wind by this time had gone down considerably; and, as day wasbreaking, the whole party were in the boat once more and enjoying aquiet sleep as they sailed. It was long, though, before Elizabeth couldget out of her thoughts the handsome young officer who had sat there bythe fire. And many a time would she conjure up his form on the benchagain—particularly as he looked when he held up his glass and glancedover to her while he sang—

"Hurrah! then, boys, for the one of your mind,
That never, oh, never, you'll leave behind."

Subsequently to this, Carl Beck made repeated excursions out to Torungento shoot sea-birds, and, by preference, alone in his sailing-boat. But,whether it was an instinct or not on her side, it happened somehow thathe never had any further conversation with her without the old man beingwith them.

CHAPTER VI.

The Juno arrived in due course at Boston, where Salvé invested aconsiderable portion of his wages in the material for a dress, a coupleof silk handkerchiefs, and two massive rings with his own andElizabeth's initials on them.

From Boston she proceeded to Grimsby with a Canadian cargo; then on ashort trip to Liverpool; then back to Quebec; and some ten or elevenmonths after leaving Arendal, they were on a voyage from Memel in theBaltic to New York, with a cargo of timber, planks, and pipe-staves—theintention being to call in at the home port, for which she had somegeneral cargo, to take in provisions.

During these voyages Salvé, as one may say, had completed hisapprenticeship to the sea; and in his blue shirt loosely knotted roundthe throat, his leather belt and canvas trousers, he had such a look ofsmartness and energy that it required no very great amount ofdiscernment to perceive in him a sailor from top to toe. He had, soonerthan most, risen superior to the dangers and temptations to which youngsailor lads are exposed during the years of their novitiate, and with abreak-neck recklessness of disposition he combined such a perfectlycat-like activity, that his superior smartness was recognised even amonghis comrades. His bearing, it is true, was rather arrogant, and histongue not the most good-natured; but he was generally likednevertheless, for he was kind-hearted, if he was only taken on the rightside, and it did not seem to be his sailor-like qualities upon which heprided himself so much as upon the superior acuteness of hisunderstanding, which he delighted to display in discussions with thered-bearded and somewhat consequential sailmaker, who had the reputationof being a well-read man, and who affected a proportionate importance.

Up at Memel they had had great difficulties to contend with, owing tothe condition of the ice; and their bad luck seemed to be going tofollow them, for in the Skager Rack they found themselves suddenlywedged into a field of drift-ice, with the prospect of having to remainwhere they were for weeks perhaps. The cold had been unusually severethat winter in the Baltic, and out over the plain of ice by which theywere surrounded they could see flags of all nations sharing a similarfate. There was nothing for it but to wait and hope; and if the ice didnot break up soon, short rations would become the order of the day.

It was wearisome; and to Salvé above all, who was feverishly longing toget home, and whose temperament was little suited for the endurance ofsuch agonies of Tantalus. He became the very embodiment of restlessness.A hundred times a-day he went aloft to look out for some prospect of achange, and to strain his eyes after the streak of land to the northwhich was to be made out on clear days from the maintop-gallantmast-head, and which of course would be the coast of Norway. The dress,the silk handkerchiefs, the rings, and what he should say toElizabeth—whether he should formally request a private interview withher, or wait till an opportunity offered—were running incessantly inhis head. And particularly what he should say to her seemed now, oftenas he had thought it over during the long voyage and settled it to hissatisfaction, to present many points of difficulty. He must go down thento his seaman's chest and see if the things were still there all right,and whether the moths might not have got into them; the last inspection,when he unfolded the stuff in his bunk, being conducted with uncommonprecautions.

At last there came a prospect of release in the shape of thick weather,and a southerly gale setting on the Norwegian coast. The ice too had fora day or two previously begun to show blue patches of water here andthere, and when it was dark that evening they felt themselves free oncemore.

In spite of the salt water and the rain, which he had to wipe off hisface every minute, Salvé went to his look-out post forward that night,and stood there humming to himself, whilst the rest of the crew who wereon duty slopped up and down on the deck-cargo below, in sea-boots anddripping oilskins, or sheltered themselves, as best they could, underthe lee of the round-house or forecastle. They had been hard at work allday, making openings in the ice; and now the groaning and whistlingamong the blocks and ropes, that were increasing every minute, gavelittle promise of rest for the night.

The captain stood upon the poop in his thick overcoat and drenched furcap, with his trumpet under his arm, looking anxiously through thenight-glass from time to time, and his voice sounded unusually stern.There lay before him in the dark, blustering, winter night a veritableDavid's choice. The strong southerly current, aided by the gale, wasfast carrying him in under the Norwegian coast; while on the other hand,if he tried to beat to windward, he risked coming into collision withthe ice-floes. Added to that, he was not very clear as to his position;and as the gale increased, he began to pace restlessly backwards andforwards, addressing, every now and then, a word down to one of thehelmsmen, whose forms could be seen by the gleam from the binnacle.

"How's her head, Jens?"

"Sou'-west, sir; she'll lay no higher."

"H'm! more and more on land!" he muttered, the perspiration coming outupon his forehead under his fur cap, which, in spite of the rain, he hadto push back to get air. Both life and ship would soon be at stake.

"What says the look-out-man, mate?" he asked of the latter, who came upthe steps at this moment from taking a turn forward.

"Black as pitch. If we stuck a lantern out on the flying jib-boom, weshould see that far at any rate. But the lead gives deep water."

"Does it?" was the rather scornful rejoinder.

"The blockhead doesn't seem to know yet," growled the captain, as theother turned away, "that the lead will give you deep water here untilyour vessel has her nose upon the cliff."

There was no chance of a pilot on such a night as this promised to be;but still, in the hope that the wind might carry the sound in underland, a few shots were fired from the signal-gun.

At last there was no longer any choice left. If they were not to endupon the rocks that night, they must crowd on more sail, and try at allhazards to haul off the coast.

The order was accordingly given to shake a reef out, followed by "Haulin the topsail bow-lines—clap on the topsail halyards, and hoist away!"and in the darkness might be heard occasionally "halimen-oh!-oh hoi!" asthe sailors worked at the tough and heavy sail, with the cordage allstiff and swollen with ice and slippery with the rain, the spray drivingin their faces, and the vessel rolling so that sometimes they werehanging on by the ropes only, when the deck went from under their feet.

Under the fresh weight of sail the vessel careened over, and shotfoaming forward with new life for a moment. The next, the topsail hadburst away from the bolt-ropes with a report as of a cannon-shot, andshe had fallen away into the trough of the sea. The mainstay-sail sheetparted at the same time, and a deluge of water carried overboard, withpart of the bulwarks, a large portion of the deck cargo, which consistedof heavy timber, leaving the remainder tossed about in the wildestconfusion, and much of it standing on end against the railings andcapstan.

It was some time before she could be brought up in the wind again, andthe old Juno had then to go through a trial such as her joints even inher younger days had never been equal to. She was like many anothervessel that is a good sailor enough, a little broken-backed from theweight of the cargo amidships; and as she gave to the strain, the ladderthat stood in the hold began to saw up and down in the coaming forward,while the water came oozing in through the staring bow timbers, and thepumps had to be kept continually going. The hatches were all batteneddown, and many of the crew had lashed themselves to the lower rigging aspreferable now to the deck.

"Ready about!—tacks and sheets!" &c.; "luff now, and keep her close tothe wind!"—the same monotonous words of command all through the nightevery time they lay over upon a new tack, while at the same time theywould generally ship a heavy sea, and the vessel would shake through allher frame.

Day broke and passed in a fog, that left them in much the sameuncertainty as before about their position. For one moment it hadlifted, and they fancied they had seen "Homborgsund's Fald," a highlandmark up the country above Arendal, and from its lowness and dimnesson the horizon, they had been encouraged to hope that they hadappreciably increased their distance from the coast. About noon theypassed an English brig that had been through the same struggle as theJuno was now engaged upon, whose signals of distress they had alreadyoccasionally heard faintly upon the wind, and which now seemed on thepoint of foundering. The crew had climbed into the after-rigging, whichwas all that now remained standing, and they made despairing signs forhelp; but it was impossible to render any. They had enough to do to keepthemselves afloat.

The gale showed no signs of moderating, and that night, as SalvéKristiansen and another were taking their turn at the wheel, theregleamed suddenly out of the pitchy darkness to leeward of thefore-rigging the white crest of a tremendous eddy wave, which a momentafter came crashing down upon the deck, carrying clean away theround-house, binnacle, and long-boat, damaging the wheel, and leavingmany of the drenched and half—suffocated sailors deposited in the mostunexpected places, and only glad to find that they still had the deckunder them.

"Ugly sea on the lee-bow!" was heard again from forward, and all in thatdirection seemed suddenly to have become a mass of white.

"Ready about!—hard a-lee!" and with a great lurch the old craft wentabout once more, the renewed shrieking in every kind of pitch in therigging, and the blinding dash of spray, showing to what a hurricane thegale had risen.

Salvé had been too much occupied with the damaged wheel at first to havea thought to spare for anything else; but it recurred to him very soonthat when that first dark sea had broken over them so unexpectedly fromleeward, he had seen for a moment the glimmer of two lights on itscrest, and a world of associations was at once aroused in his mind: itseemed to the lad's romantic fancy that he was keeping an appointmentwith Elizabeth Raklev. As he glanced hurriedly back, the two light-dotsagain appeared. He had seen them too often before to be mistaken, and heshouted over his shoulder to the captain, who noticed them now for thefirst time, "Those lights behind to leeward are from old Jacob's hearthon Torungen!"

"Are you sure of that?" muttered Beck, coming nearer to him at the sametime over the sloping deck with the help of a rope. "If they are, itwill not be long before we are dashed to atoms on the rocks."

A conversation ensued between them, in which Salvé declared that he hadknown the water under Torungen from childhood as well as he did hisfather's garden; and the upshot was that Beck, pale and hesitating,determined to go in under land with him as pilot.

"It is much that is being intrusted this night to two young shoulders,"said he; "and see you think twice, young man, both for your own life'ssake and ours."

They kept away then, and stood in under land with the least sail theycould carry in the tremendous sea that was now breaking in their wake,and soon the thunder of the breakers became audible.

Salvé was pale, but perfectly calm, as he stood there with thespeaking-trumpet, after having taken over the command, and with thecaptain and mate by his side. But all of a sudden great beads ofperspiration came out on his forehead. There was something curiouslyirregular about the light. It had become dim and red, and then seemed togo out altogether. Had he by any possibility made a mistake? and was henow sailing the Juno with all on board straight for the rocks?

The uncertainty lasted for a quarter of an hour, and never in his lifehad Salvé seen so heavy a countenance as that with which Beck, whoseexpression discovered a trace of doubt, looked at him, evidentlyhesitating whether he should not take the command again himself.

But in the mean time the gleam of light shone forth again—whatevermight have been the cause of its obscuration—and that night SalvéKristiansen brought the Juno safely into Merdö.

CHAPTER VII.

Out on Little Torungen meanwhile noteworthy events had occurred, whichwere now the talk of the town.

Old Jacob had had a stroke the week before, and had died the same nightthe Juno had had her wrestle for life. In the preceding two days of fogand storm they had heard many signal-guns of distress, and hisgranddaughter had during that time kept up the fire alone at night. Itwas only as he was drawing his last breath, and she sat by his side andbent over him, forgetful of aught else, that it was for a whileneglected; and it was this little moment that had caused Salvé such amauvais quart d'heure on board the Juno. On the following day, in herdespair, she had attempted a perilous journey over the drift ice tobring people out to her assistance, and had been taken up by a boat andbrought in by it to Arendal.

The poor girl was far too much occupied with her grief for the loss ofher grandfather to think in the remotest degree of making her storyinteresting. But Carl Beck, in his enthusiasm, knew very well how togive the incident a colouring of romance, and she was very soon exaltedinto the heroine of the hour. It was talked of at the Amtmand's—a housewith two handsome daughters, where Lieutenant Beck was a dailyvisitor—and it was in everybody's mouth how, all alone out on Torungenwith her dying grandfather, she had been the means of saving the Juno,and had since risked her life on the ice. Every one could see by aglance at her that she must have a remarkable character; but as to heruncommon beauty there prevailed different opinions in feminine circles.It was, at all events, a pity that she was so forlorn; and the Becks, itwas thought, were now morally bound to look after her.

For the present she had gone to live with her aunt up in one of thenarrow streets at the back of the town, and there came pouring in, withand without the owners' names, all sorts of friendly advice, with blackdress materials and ornaments from the young men and shop lads; and acouple of the bustling ladies of the town even came in person to see heraunt and talk over the girl's future. When Carl Beck, however, gave outthat he looked upon these presents as slights upon himself, they ceased.He had only been up there once, and then his eldest sister was with him:but his manner on that occasion had been most attractive, he hadsympathised with such winning sincerity, and at the same time sounassumingly, in Elizabeth's grief; and when leaving assured her, withemotion which he made no attempt to conceal, that they owed it to herthat their father was still alive.

When he was gone, his sister had proceeded to the real matter of hervisit. She had come to propose to the aunt that Elizabeth should livewith them for the present with the view of qualifying herself for ahousekeeper's place, as she must not be exposed to the necessity ofgoing out as a common servant-girl. It was her brother, she added, whohad made this plan for Elizabeth's future.

The offer was a highly desirable one for persons in their position, andwas accepted by the aunt with unmixed satisfaction. Over Elizabeth'sface, however, there passed a momentary cloud. She felt, without knowingwhy, a sense of oppression at the prospect of coming into closer contactwith the young lieutenant; but at the same time she would not for agreat deal have refused the offer.

CHAPTER VIII.

As for Salvé, during the first few days after coming home he was a happyman. He was in love: he had received from his captain a hundred-dalernote, accompanied by a promise that as soon as he had learnt navigationhe should be third mate on board the Juno; and he heard himself admiredon all sides by his equals and associates. There was so much work to bedone, though, in discharging the cargo and getting the vessel into dockfor repairs—they had managed to get her up as far as Arendal—that itwould be Saturday evening before he could get his so longed-forhome-leave.

On the day before, as he was sitting on watch in the early morning underthe lee of the bulwark, he accidentally overheard a conversation goingon upon the slip below that set his blood on fire.

The carpenters had just come to their work, and one of them was tellingthe story of old Jacob's death, and of the heroism which hisgranddaughter had displayed.

"They say," he went on, "that Captain Beck is to have him buried onMonday next, and that he is to provide for the granddaughter—the navylieutenant has seen to that."

The noise and the clinking of the hammers that were now at work made
Salvé lose a good deal of the conversation here.

"There is good reason for that, mind you," was the next observation hecaught, made in a somewhat lower tone, and accompanied by a doubtfullaugh. "It is not for nothing that he has been out so constantlyshooting sea-fowl about Torungen."

"Would she be a—sea-bird of that feather? Old Jacob, I should havethought, was not the kind of man—"

"Well, perhaps not that altogether; but the first thing she did was tocome straight over here; and he has had her already taken into his ownhouse. I have that from the aunt. The old woman had no suspicion ofanything, but told me quite innocently that now she was to be a sort ofhousekeeper with the Becks."

A slight noise above him here caused the speaker to look up. A deadlypale young sailor was staring down at him over the ship's side with apair of eyes that struck him as resembling those he had once seen in thehead of a mad dog. Their owner turned away at once and crossed the deck.

"That must have been the lover!" he whispered over to the other, as heset to work with his adze upon the pencilled plank. Shortly after hemuttered in a tone of compunction—

"If I saw that physiognomy aright, some one had better take care ofhimself when he gets leave ashore."

Salvé had sprung to his feet in a fury when he heard about young Beck,but the desire to hear more had kept him spellbound. What further hadbeen hinted of his relations with Elizabeth, and that the latter hadeven taken refuge in his house, seemed all only too probable. He knewboth the men who had been speaking; they were respectable folks, and theone besides had had the news from the aunt herself.

There was hard work that day on board, but his hands were as if they hadbeen benumbed. It was impossible for him to give any assistance, exceptin appearance, when any hauling was to be done;—he did everythingmechanically.

"Are you sick, lad, or longing after your sweetheart?" said the mate tohim in the course of the afternoon. He saw that there was somethingwrong with him.

That last, "after your sweetheart," had a wonderfully rousing influence.He felt himself all at once relieved of his heavy feeling of exhaustion,and worked now so hard that the perspiration poured down his face,joining in the hauling song from time to time with a wild, unnaturalenergy: he was afraid to leave himself a moment for thought. When theday was over, however, he took the anchor watch for a comrade, who wasoverjoyed at the unexpected prospect of getting a quiet night in hishammock, and at escaping from his turn of "ship's dog"—that watchconsisting of one man only, whose business it is to keep the ship fromharbour-thieves.

He paced up and down the deck alone in the pitchy darkness, that wasonly relieved by a lantern or two out in the harbour, and a light hereand there up in the town—sometimes standing for long minutes together,with his cheek on his hand, leaning on the railing. He could, withoutthe slightest scruple, murder young Beck—that he felt.

At two o'clock he crossed over to the boards that were sloped againstthe vessel's side, slid down them in the dark to the slip, and fromthere made his way ashore. Elizabeth's aunt lived in one of the smallhouses above; and he had determined to wake her and have a talk withher.

Widow Kirstine was a portly, somewhat worn perhaps, but otherwisestrong-looking, old woman, with a good broad face, and thin grey hairdrawn down behind her ears. She was not unused to being disturbed atnight, one of her occupations being to nurse sick people; but she alwaysgrumbled whenever she was. When she held up the candle she had lit, andrecognised Salvé Kristiansen, she thought, from his paleness and generalappearance, that he was drunk.

"Is that you, Salvé?—and a pretty state to be in at this time ofnight!" she began, severely, in the doorway, not caring to let him in atfirst. "Is that the way you spend your wages?"

"No, mother, it's not. I've come off my watch; I wanted to have a wordwith you about Elizabeth."

His tone was so strangely low and sorrowful, that the old woman saw thatthere must be something unusual the matter; and she opened the door.

"About Elizabeth, you say?"

"Yes—where is she stopping now?"

"Where is she stopping?—why, with the Becks, of course. Is thereanything the matter?"

"You ought to know that best, mother Kirstine," he said, earnestly.

She held up the light to his face, and looked at him in vague anxiety,but could make nothing out of it.

"If I ought to know it, tell me," she said, almost in a tone ofentreaty.

"Young Beck, I hear, has been out about Torungen the wholeyear—shooting sea-birds—or—do you really think he means to marryher?" he broke out wildly, and raising his voice.

It was only now that she caught his full meaning; and setting down thecandlestick hard upon the table, she dropped into the chair by the sideherself.

"So—that is what they are saying, is it?" she cried at last. Her firstfear was over; but anger had succeeded to it, and she rose now from herseat with arms akimbo and flashing eyes. She was not a woman to offendlightly.

"So they have fastened that lie upon Elizabeth, have they!—it's a shamefor them, so it is! And you, Salvé, can soil your lips with it? Let mejust tell you, then, for your pains, that the Becks' house is asrespectable a one as any in Arendal; and it isn't you, and such as you,that can take its character away. Never fear but Elizabeth shall hearevery word of your precious story—ay, and the captain, and thelieutenant, and Madam Beck, too; and you'll be hunted from the Juno likea dripping cur. So you thought that Elizabeth was to be beholden to thelieutenant for a character—?"

"Dear mother Kirstine!" Salvé cried, interrupting her in the fulltorrent of her indignation, "I didn't think about it—I couldn't think.Only, I heard Anders of the Crag down on the slip this morning say itall so confidently.

"Anders of the Crag? So it was from him you heard it?—the pitiful,wheedling rascal! That is his gratitude, I suppose, for my being withhis wife last week!—I shall know where to find him. But the receiver inthe like is no better than the stealer," she resumed, indignantly; "andI'd have you know, it was just Beck's own daughter who came here andoffered Elizabeth a respectable place in a respectable house, and it wasto me she talked, my lad," pointing self-consciously with quiveringforefinger at her own bosom; "so Elizabeth has not begged herself inthere at all. You didn't need to desert your watch to bring such taleshere; and Elizabeth shall hear of it—that she shall," she repeated,excitedly, striking one hand into the other with a loud smack—"sheshall hear what fine faith you have in her."

"Dear mother Kirstine! I didn't mean any harm," he said, entreatingly,feeling as if a weight had been taken off his heart—"only please don'ttell Elizabeth."

"You may depend upon it I will."

"Mother Kirstine!" he said, in a low voice, and looking down, "I broughta dress with me for her that I had bought in Boston. And then I heardall this, and I couldn't contain myself." He said nothing about therings.

"So!" rejoined the old woman after a pause, during which she hadexamined him through her half-closed eyes, and in a somewhat mildertone; "so you brought a dress for her! and at the same time you comerunning up here in the middle of the night to tell me that she hasbecome a common baggage for the lieutenant,"—and her anger rose again.

"But, Mother Kirstine, I don't believe a word of it."

"It wasn't to tell me that, I suppose, you came up here in such haste,my lad."

"I was only mad to think such a thing could be said of her."

"Well, be off with you now! Anders of the Crag shall go farther with hislie—if I go with him before the Foged and the Maritime Court."

For the matter of that, she might as well have threatened to go with himto the moon; but Salvé understood her to mean by the Maritime Court thebloodiest course she knew.

As she opened the door to let him out, she said with a certainconfidential seriousness—"Tell me, Salvé! has anything passed betweenyou and Elizabeth?"

He seemed uncertain for a moment what reply he should make to thisunexpected invitation of confidence. At length he said—

"I don't know, Mother Kirstine, for certain; two years ago, I made her apresent of a pair of shoes."

"You did!—well, see now and get on board again without any one noticingyou—that's my advice," she replied, without allowing herself to bebrought any further into the matter, and pushed him then ratherunceremoniously out of the door.

After he had gone she sat for a while with the light in her lap, staringat it and nodding her head reflectively.

"He's a good and a handsome lad that Salvé," she said at last, aloud."But on the whole it will be better to tell Elizabeth, and then she canbe on her guard there in the house;" and having come to this decisionshe rose from her seat and prepared to go to bed again.

Salvé, notwithstanding this interview, was far from being at ease nextday, and he felt the courage he had mustered up, to go straight toElizabeth with the dress and ring, altogether gone.

In the evening, when all the crew were given leave from the ship forthree weeks, he went off to his father instead, to see if he could learnmore of the situation through inquiries from him; and on the followingMonday both were present at old Jacob's interment in Tromö churchyard.

CHAPTER IX.

All these events had come upon Elizabeth with overwhelming suddenness.It seemed to her like a confused dream. Yet the fact remained that thereshe was, dressed in black, an inmate of one of those handsome houses,the interiors of which she had so often pictured to herself out onTorungen.

Captain Beck was married to a second wife, a woman of stern principles,full of decision and respectability, who had brought him a considerablefortune, and, under her lynx-eyed rule, had restored that order inhousehold matters which, during the period her husband was a widower,had been far too much neglected; and though his power might still beabsolute on board the Juno, it had long since ceased to be so in his ownhouse. By her grown-up step-children Madam Beck was in the highestdegree respected, though not exactly loved, owing to the variousunaccustomed restraints to which they now found themselves subjected;and as to Carl, his easy tact, notwithstanding the independent positionwhich he enjoyed in his home as salaried member of a coast commission,enabled him to keep on the best of terms with his imperious stepmother.His duties would detain him about home for another year, to be stillfêted by the town, and idolised by his sisters, who were never tired ofspeculating upon eligible matches for him.

From the very first, Elizabeth, who, in her utter ignorance how tobehave, committed one egregious blunder after another, had perceivedwith her strong sense that it would require all the cleverness andpatience she possessed to enable her to maintain the situation; and shebegan by following Madam Beck about untiringly like a lamb. Many apainful scene had she to go through during the earlier period of theirconnection, and she bore them with a quiet gentleness which Madam Becktook for modest docility, but which had its real origin in a fixeddetermination to succeed. Every now and then, however, she would give itup as hopeless, and would seat herself disconsolately by the window withher cheek upon her hand, and gaze wistfully out over the harbour. Shelonged so for cold fresh air, and would end by throwing up the windowand stretching herself with her heated face as far out of it as shepossibly could, till Madam Beck would come in, and in a stern voice callher back. Madam Beck, in her irritation, used to say that it was almostas if they had taken a wild thing into the house.

Carl Beck understood very well what she was going through, and wouldoccasionally throw her an encouraging look; but Elizabeth affectedalways not to understand it. On one occasion, however, when she wascorrected in his presence, she hurriedly left the room, and throwingherself on her bed, lay there and sobbed as if her heart would break.

She had been trusted one afternoon, shortly after, to bring in thetea-tray, on which, without thinking what she was doing, she had placedthe chafing-dish with the boiling teakettle. It fell as she was carryingit in; but although its hot side and the boiling water burnt and scaldedher arm and hand, she carried the tray quite quietly out again withoutallowing a muscle of her face to change—she was not going to becorrected before him again.

Madam Beck herself bound up her hand in the kitchen, where she stoodwhite with pain; while Carl, who had been sitting on the sofa, and hadseen how the whole thing happened, forgetting his self-command, hadjumped up in great excitement, and had shown such uncommon sympathy thathis sister Mina, afterwards, when they were alone in the room together,said, with a look that was more searching than the joking words seemedto require, "It is not possible you are fond of the girl, Carl?"

"No fear, Mina," he answered quickly, in the same tone, chucking herunder the chin as he spoke. "There are as handsome girls as her inArendal; but you can see as well as I can that she is a girl in ahundred. That business with the tea-tray is what very few others wouldhave been capable of; and we mustn't forget that if it had not been forher—"

"Oh yes," rejoined Mina, with a toss of her head, a little tired of theeternal repetition of this stock observation. "She didn't know all thesame that it was papa who was out there."

It was a game of hypocrisy, thought out with no inconsiderable subtlety,that the handsome lieutenant was carrying on in this matter: under hisapparently so entirely frank sailor-bearing there was hidden a realdiplomatist. By trumpeting about the town the service which Elizabethhad rendered them in saving the Juno, he had, one may say, forced hisfamily to take her up, though to them he made it appear that publicopinion left them no alternative. On the other hand, he was uncommonlycautious in his attitude towards Elizabeth herself; for he knew he mustwin her without attracting the attention of his stepmother and sisters.He believed he had made a sort of impression upon her; but at the sametime he felt that he had a wild swan to deal with, that might at anymoment spread its wings and fly away—there was such a strong,independent individuality about her.

In his home, however, she had become a different creature, scarcely tobe recognised as the same Elizabeth,—so quietly did she go about,hardly conscious of his presence apparently—and so slavishly did shefollow the directions of the mistress of the house. This new aspect ofher had put him in doubt for a while, but it was not very long before hesatisfied himself that he understood what it meant; and that littleaffair with the tea-tray, that was set down to awkwardness by theothers, had quite a different significance for him. He flattered himselfthat she subjected herself to all this restraint for his sake; andwhatever the dénouement might be, the situation was, at all events, aninteresting one.

But there was, on the other hand, something in her manner that kept himat a certain distance, and left him in uncertainty as to what lineexactly he should take. The same had been the case whenever they hadbeen together out on the island, and had in fact been the principalcause of his becoming more deeply in love with her every day. He hadonce out there encountered a look in her steel-grey eyes which had givenhim the impression that the opinion she entertained of him could in amoment be reversed, and that least of all dare he allow her to feel thathe was appearing in the character of a lover; and it was for this reasonhe had scarcely ever talked with her grandfather, and only casually withherself. The fact was, old Jacob had very well understood that the smartyoung navy-lieutenant did not come out there for his sake; and as hecould not very well shut the door in his face, he had very sensiblywarned his granddaughter against him. He explained to her that people ofhis class were not in the habit of marrying a common man's child,although it happened far too often that they might play at love withthem. "Such a lad as Salvé Kristiansen, now," he remarked, inconclusion, "that is the sort of stuff that will not disappoint you;"and he thought he had played the diplomatist there with some skill.

"I didn't understand you to mean that exactly, grandfather, that timeyou were going to beat him," she said.

The old man was rather nonplussed for the moment, but he growled outsomething about youngsters requiring correction occasionally, and wenton, "He's a god lad, I tell you; and if he came and made up to you, heshould have you without a moment's hesitation; and then I should be easyin my mind as to what would become of you when I'm gone."

Elizabeth made no further observation, but a certain expression abouther mouth seemed to denote that she reserved to herself the liberty tohave an opinion of her own in this matter. Salvé Kristiansen had beenvery dear to her as the only friend and confidant she had ever had; butsince she had seen the lieutenant, it had been he who had exclusivelyoccupied her thoughts. All that had formed the ideal of her youngenthusiasm had suddenly in his person appeared upon the rock; butwhether it was his uniform, or the bravery of the fleet, or himself,that was the object of her admiration, she had never asked herself,until hurt and rendered thoughtful by that warning of her grandfather.Now, it was unmistakably himself, the handsome, brilliant embodiment ofit all. But at the same time there sprang up in her nature anunconquerable feeling of pride, in obedience to the dictates of whichshe absolutely resigned him, though still retaining her enthusiasticadmiration; and it was this double attitude of mind which her eyesexpressed, and which puzzled her admirer. When she heard afterwards fromher aunt in Arendal that people had been talking about them, she felt itdeeply, and more than ever then had become sensible that there was aninvisible barrier between them.

Carl's father meanwhile had been trudging daily over to the dry-dock tosee after the Juno, which had had to have her bottom scraped, her gapingseams caulked, and to undergo a general repair: he was hardly at home tomeals. It was a case of urgency, as the delivery of her cargo at itsdestination could not be delayed beyond a certain time.

About a month after Elizabeth had come into Captain Beck's house theJuno was ready for sea again; and Carl's sister came into the roomsmiling one day then, and said—

"Elizabeth, there is a young sailor out in the porch who wants to speakto you; he has a parcel under his arm. Perhaps it is a present."

Elizabeth, who was bringing in the tea-things at the time, turned red,and Carl Beck, who was standing by the window, a little pale. She knewvery well that it was Salvé, and for a moment she was almost frightenedat his audacity. She had seen him a couple of times before, and hadallowed him to feel that she was not particularly anxious for hiscompany, in consequence of what her aunt had told her, and as she wentout to see him now she trembled.

He looked at her for a moment or two without saying a word.

"Will you take this dress, Elizabeth?" he said at last, almost harshly.

"No, that I won't, Salvé. Such things as you have been saying about me!"

"So you won't take it?" he said, slowly and dejectedly. "It is no usesaying anything more, then, I suppose."

"No, Salvé, it is no use saying anything more."

The desolate expression of his face as he stood and looked at her, whilehe asked, "Am I to take it to sea with me, Elizabeth?" went to herheart, and the tears rushed into her eyes. She shook her headnegatively, but with an almost despairing look, and disappeared into thehouse.

They could see in the sitting-room that she had been crying. But CarlBeck was a cold-blooded man, and merely lay at the window and looked outafter his rival, to see if he had the parcel under his arm as he wentout of the gate.

That night Elizabeth lay awake. She had cried in her sleep, and haddreamed that she had seen Salvé standing down at the quay so wretchedlyclothed and so miserable, but too proud to ask assistance of any one,and that he had given her such a bitterly reproachful look; and she laytossing about, unable to get the dream out of her head. Presently therecame the noise of a riotous mob outside, and she got up and went to thewindow. The police were taking some one with them down the street. Asthey passed, she saw by the light of the street-lamp for a moment thatit was Salvé. He was resisting with all his might, pale and infuriated,with his blue shirt all torn open in the front, and there was anexpression in his face that—at any rate, she slept no more that night.

There had been a general mêlée, she heard next morning, among thesailors over in Mother Andersen's, on the other side of the harbour. Itwas said that knives had been used, and that Salvé Kristiansen had beenthe originator of the whole disturbance—without a shadow of protest,Carl Beck said; and proceeded then to put various interpretations of hisown upon the affair. Elizabeth left the room, and for some days afterwas pale and worn-looking, and more than usually reserved, Carl thought,in her attitude towards himself.

Captain Beck had paid Salvé's fine and procured his release, and theafternoon before the Juno was to sail his father and younger brothercame on board to say good-bye to him. There was something strange in hismanner that struck them both; it was as if he thought he would never seethem again. He offered his father his hundred-daler note, and when thelatter would not take it, made him promise, at all events, to keep itfor him. The father attributed his unusual manner to distress of mindand depression on account of his recent adventure with the police; butas he was going ashore he said, in rather a husky voice—

"Remember, Salvé, that you have an old father expecting you at home!"

That evening and a great part of the night Salvé passed in the Juno'smaintop, gazing over at Beck's house as long as there was a light in theattic window. And when that went out it seemed as if something had beenextinguished in himself with it.

CHAPTER X.

The outer side of Tromö, which lies off the entrance to Arendal, hasonly the ordinary barren stone-grey appearance of the rest of theislands along the coast; a wooden church, with a little belfry like asentry-box and serving as a landmark, which lies drearily down by thesea, and under which on Sundays a pilot-boat or two may be seen lying-towhile service is going on, is the only feature for the eye to rest upon.The land side of the island, on the contrary, presents a scene all thericher and livelier for the contrast. The narrow Tromö Sound, with itsswarm of small coasters, lighters, pilot-boats, and vessels of largerbuild, suns itself there between fertile or wooded slopes and ridges,over which are scattered in every direction the red cottages of thesailor population, skippers' houses, and villas; and in every availablespot, in every creek or bay where there is barely room for a vessel, thewhite timbers of ships in course of construction come into view. It isan idyllic dockyard, a very beautiful and very appropriate approach toNorway's principal seaport town; and whoever steams up it on a stillsummer's day must enjoy a surprise that will not easily be effaced fromhis recollection.

At the period of our story, indeed, the picture was far from being socomplete or rich: but even then were becoming manifest the germs of thebustle and life which now pervade the place.

On one of the most beautiful points of the Sound peeped into view asmall one-storeyed house with two small-paned attic windows projectingfrom its steep tiled roof, and with a pine-wood climbing the hillsidebehind, which was the property of Captain Beck; and here, until, as heproposed to do in a couple of years' time, he retired from the sea andinvested his fortune in the shipbuilding yard which he had in view, hisfamily generally took up their residence during the summer months.Hither in the early part of this summer, too, they had repaired.

It was no life of idleness, though, which they lived out there: MadamBeck always made work for everybody, and had her own spinning-wheel inthe sitting-room. Her step-son had his occupation on land, and as muchas he could do, as member of the coast commission. But he used generallyto come over on Saturdays in his pretty sail-boat and remain overSunday; and on that day, too, some one or other family of theiracquaintance in the town would make them an object for a pleasure party,and would usually spend the afternoon with them.

Carl Beck was always in great force on these occasions. His brown faceand frank sailor bearing and good looks would have been sufficient inthemselves to make him a favourite with the ladies. But, in addition tothese claims upon their interest, he had been known to most of theyounger ones among them from his schoolboy days, when he used to comehome on leave as a cadet, and he seemed to enjoy particular confidentialrelations with nearly every one of them, or, at all events, to be inpossession of some secret or other which only they two knew. They hadall kinds of jokes and expressions from their younger days which wereunintelligible to the rest; and what is vulgarly called "chaff" formed,perhaps, the staple of his conversation with them, varied now and thenby a touch of sentiment, which was intended, by chance as it were, toopen up to them for a moment the real deeper nature which they might nothave suspected him of possessing. They used to twit him about hisinclination to stoutness, and he used to joke about it too, and say hehad too good a time of it.

Among the Becks' most frequent visitors out there was postmasterForstberg's family, which included, besides the parents, a hobbledehoyson and their daughter Marie, a fair-haired girl some eighteen years ofa*ge, of quiet manners, and with an uncommonly clever face. Nobody saidthat she was pretty, but nearly every one who knew her had theimpression that she was; and there was a certain indefinable harmony andgrace, not only about her perhaps rather small figure, but abouteverything she did. But if she was not considered pretty, it was agreedon all sides that she had great sense; and among her friends she wasalways the one they elected to confide in, whenever they had anything ontheir minds. That she never confided anything to them in return had,curiously enough, never struck them; and for that matter, she was toocorrect and proper, they imagined, to have any heart affairs herself.She was a confidential friend of Carl Beck's sisters, and especially ofMina, who declared that she put her before all the rest of heracquaintance, and thought in her own heart that she was exactly thematch for her brother.

The only one of the young girls in the circle with whom Carl Beck hadhad no youthful acquaintance was Marie Forstberg; and it had been sometime before he discovered that the quiet girl was worth talking to. Heused to be secretly annoyed then that the conversation when she waspresent should lapse so easily into empty trifling; her mind was soclear and true, and she had such a beautiful smile for whatever sheapproved. Before her, therefore, he always displayed now the broad,manly side of his character—which he could do with so much grace—andthe coquetry which was at the bottom of this was not without its effect.She had always made rather a hero of him in her own mind, and he hadcreated the flattering impression now that the light and flirting mannerwhich he adopted towards young ladies, and which had rather qualifiedher admiration of him, had been due to his not having before found amongthem any one that was worthy of a man's serious attention. He had begunconsequently to occupy a much larger share of her thoughts than shewould herself have been willing to acknowledge; and many of theconfidences of which she was the recipient at this time would, if herfriends had had a little more penetration, have been brought last of allto her.

Marie Forstberg's attention had very soon been attracted to Elizabeth;and knowing her history, she tried very often to help her, and put herin the right way of doing things. At first she found her rather shortand unapproachable, and could get nothing but "yes" or "no" from her;and there was something almost offensive in the brusque way in which shewould turn with an impatient flush from her mentor when she sometimesdidn't understand what was meant, and would do the thing in her own way.She wouldn't see at first the various little good turns which the otherdid her in her quiet, considerate way; but they were acknowledged atlast with a look that made amends for all her former obtuseness; and inspite of their different natures and unequal social position, these twowomen soon came to feel, if not exactly drawn to one another, mutuallyinterested in each other. At the same time, as Elizabeth was not blindto the diplomacy of the house, she had soon perceived that of all theyoung ladies who came there, Marie Forstberg was the one who had thebest chance, and who indeed best deserved to be the young lieutenant'sbride; and although she tried to believe that she was merely a resignedlooker-on herself, she seemed to feel every Sunday, when Marie Forstbergcame, that a certain disagreeable impression had grown up in her mindabout her during the week which it took some time to thaw. When it didthaw, however, which in time it always did, she would feel attracted toher with redoubled warmth; and though their conversation might beostensibly occupied only with such subjects as laying the table ordishing the dinner, she would contrive to introduce into it anything andeverything concerning the lieutenant which she thought might interest orrecommend him to her friend. Marie Forstberg couldn't help sometimesfixing her clear blue eyes searchingly upon her, to ascertain if therewas not some object underlying this communicativeness; but Elizabethwould look so unconscious, as she stood there with her sleeves tuckedup, busy with her work, that she dismissed the idea from her mind.

In this country life, although without a moment to call her own,Elizabeth felt freer at all events than she had done in the town; andshe had made such rapid progress under Madam Beck's tuition, that thelatter's supervision was in many things no longer required. One part inparticular, the one which she might have been expected to find the mostdifficult of all—that of parlour-maid—she filled to perfection; andher upright figure and expressive face attracted many an admiring glanceon Sundays, when in her becoming striped chintz dress and white apron,and with her luxuriant hair turned up in the simplest manner, shecarried the tea or coffee things out to the guests in the summer-house.She could feel that Carl Beck's eyes were never off her as long as shewas in sight, and she seemed to know that it was she whom his eyewandered in search of first whenever he came home. In a hundred smallways he made her conscious of the interest which he felt in her; andwhenever there was a commission to be particularly remembered, he nevergave it to his sisters alone, but to her also.

His pretty pleasure-boat—a long, light, sharp-built yawl, with a redstripe along its black side, and two sloping masts—which he had latelyhad built, lay often the whole week through moored in the bay under thehouse. He was very particular about the boat, and during his absence itwas to Elizabeth's sole care that she was intrusted. There was alwayssomething or other to be looked after; and when he came home he wouldgenerally subject her, in a jokingly harsh tone, to an examination,which he called holding a summary court-martial.

Sometimes on Saturdays he would come up the path waving in his hand aletter covered with post-marks. It would be from his father to hisstepmother; and Madam Beck would generally read it by herself first, andthen it would be read aloud, Elizabeth listening with strainedattention—she was always so afraid that there might be something badabout Salvé.

One Sunday she remarked that Carl wore in the buttonhole of his uniforma wild flower which she had thrown away. It might have been the purestaccident; but she knew that he had seen her with it in her hand. Thesame day they had wild strawberries at dinner, and there were nostrangers, and he broke out all in a moment, "Yes, I'd sooner tenthousand times have wild strawberries than garden ones. They have quiteanother taste and smell."

It was a natural remark for any one to make. But she thought he hadlooked with peculiar earnestness at her as he made it, and afterwards hehad fixed his eyes upon his plate for a long while without raising them.She felt that the remark had been meant for her, and altogether that daythere was something about him that made her uneasy—he gazed at her sooften.

Madame Beck happened to have just then a long list of householdnecessaries required from Arendal, and Carl said that if some one wouldgo with him in the boat the next morning to help him with the parcels,he would execute her commissions himself. When Madame Beck suggestedElizabeth he eagerly assented; but the colour rushed into Elizabeth'scheeks, and with an angry toss of her head, which she didn't make anyattempt to conceal, she left the room.

As he was standing alone outside some little time after, she came up tohim, and said, looking him straight in the face—

"I don't go into Arendal with you, Herr Beck."

"No?—and why not, Elizabeth?" he asked, with affected indifference, andtrying to meet her look.

"I don't go," she repeated, her voice trembling with pride andanger—"that is all I have to say;" and she turned from him, and lefthim gazing after her, partly in confusion, and partly in admiration ofthe magnificently proud way in which she crossed the turf to the houseagain.

The expedition was given up; and in spite of Carl's finesse, it cameout inadvertently that it was on account of Elizabeth having refused togo alone in the boat with him, which Madam Beck found very commendableon her part. Indeed she ought to have known herself, she said, that itwas scarcely proper; but at the same time, she was decidedly of opinionthat the more becoming course for Elizabeth would have been to speak toher mistress first.

CHAPTER XI.

The house in the town was undergoing repairs this year, which kept thefamily out in the country until rather late in the autumn. But theglorious September days prolonged the summer, and they could still sitout on the steps in the evening and enjoy the beauty and the sentimentof the season, and the rich variety of the autumn tints reflected on thestill waters of the Sound.

The members of Carl's commission, with their president, were invited outthere one day, and it was made a great occasion, all the resources ofthe house being brought into requisition to do them honour.

Carl, although the youngest member of the Commission, and really onlyincluded in it to make up the required number, had been fortunate enoughto distinguish himself upon it; and his sisters even thought that theremight be a question of an order for him—that distinction so coveted inNorway—if they made love sufficiently to the president. Carl professedto be quite superior to a mere external decoration of the kind, thoughlonging for it in his heart; and Marie Forstberg, whom he had not takeninto his confidence in the matter, was highly indignant with his sistersfor supposing that it should depend upon the president, and not uponCarl's own merit, whether he received it or not. Mina, however, haddeclared, with a great air of knowledge of the world, that peoplecouldn't trust to merit alone, and that, besides (and here she had laidher hand flatteringly on her friend's shoulder), they were not all sostrict and high-principled as Marie Forstberg; and so she paid her courtto the president accordingly.

In the evening, when the gentlemen were sitting together out in thewood, and Elizabeth came out to them with a fresh supply of hot waterfor their toddy, the said president thought proper to make a joke thatbrought the colour to her cheeks. She made no reply, but the water-jugtrembled in her hands as she put it down, and as she did so she gave thespeaker such a look that for a moment he felt cowed.

"'Sdeath, Beck!" he broke out, "did you see the look she gave me?"

"She is a proud girl," said Carl, who was highly incensed, but who hadhis reasons for restraining himself before his superior.

"A proud girl indeed!" returned the other, in a tone which implied veryclearly that in his opinion impudent hussy would have been the morecorrect description.

"A good-looking girl, I mean," said Carl, evasively, by way ofcorrection, and laughed constrainedly.

Elizabeth had heard what he said. She was hurt, and for the first timeinstituted a comparison between him and Salvé. If Salvé had been in hisplace, he would not have got out of it in that way.

Later on in the evening Carl met her alone, as she was putting things torights out on the steps after the departed guests, and he saidhalf-anxiously—

"I hope you didn't mind what that blustering old brute said, Elizabeth.He is a very good fellow really, and doesn't mean anything by hisnonsense."

Elizabeth was silent, and tried to avoid answering by going in with whatshe had in her hands.

"Come, I won't stand your being offended, Elizabeth," he broke outsuddenly, firing up in a moment, and trying to catch her by the arm."That hand you work with is dearer to me than the hands of all the fineladies put together."

"Herr Beck!" she exclaimed wildly, and with tears in her eyes, "I leavethis house—this very night—if you say a word more."

She disappeared into the hall, but he followed her.

"Elizabeth," he whispered, "I mean it in earnest." She tore herselfhastily from him, and went into the kitchen, where his sisters weretalking together over the fire.

Carl went out for a solitary walk over the island in the gloriousstarlight night, and didn't come in till past midnight.

He had not meant what he said quite so decidedly in earnest; but nowafter seeing her standing before him so wondrously beautiful, with tearsin her eyes—now he meant it in real earnest. He was prepared to engagehimself, if necessary, in spite of every consideration.

The next morning he left in his boat for Arendal, having whispered toher, however, in passing, before he left, "I mean it in earnest."

The repetition of these words threw Elizabeth into dire perplexity. Shehad lain and thought over them the night before, and had thrust themfrom her with indignation, for they could mean nothing else than that hehad brought himself to dare to tell her that he had conceived a passionfor her, and she had quite determined to execute her threat and leavethe house.

But now, repeated in this tone!

Did he really mean to ask for her hand and heart—to ask her to behis—an officer's wife? There lay before her fancy a glittering expanseof earlier dreams that almost made her giddy; and the whole week she wasabsent and pale, thinking anxiously of Sunday, when he was to return.What would he say then?

And—what should she answer?

He didn't come, however, his duties having required him to make anotherjourney that he had not reckoned upon.

On the other hand Marie Forstberg did appear, and felt at once that somechange or other must have come over Elizabeth, as she pointedly declinedall assistance from her; and in the look which Marie Forstbergintercepted by chance, there was something even hard and unfriendly. Shelaid her hand once gently upon Elizabeth's shoulder, but it produced,apparently, absolutely no impression—she might as well have caressed apiece of wood; and when she returned to the sitting-room again, shecouldn't help asking, "What has happened to Elizabeth?" But the othershad not observed anything unusual.

Carl Beck, contrary to his custom, came not on the following Saturday,but before it, in the middle of the week; and he strode with hasty stepsthrough the rooms when he didn't see Elizabeth.

He found her at last up-stairs. She was standing gazing out of thewindow on the landing, out of which all that was to be seen was thewooded slope of the hill and the sky above it. She heard his step—sheknew that he was coming up-stairs—and felt a sudden indefinable senseof apprehension—a sort of panic almost—as if she could have jumped outof the window. What should she answer?

When he came and put his arm round her waist, and asked in a low voice,"Elizabeth, will you be mine?" she felt, for the first time in her life,on the point of fainting. She hardly knew what she did, but pushed himinvoluntarily away from her.

He seized her hand afresh, and asked, "Elizabeth, will you be my wife?"

She was very pale, as she answered—"Yes!"

But when he wanted again to take her by the waist, she sprang suddenlyback, and looked at him with an expression of terror.

"Elizabeth!" he said, tenderly, and tried again to approach her, "whatis the matter with you? If you only knew how I have longed for thismoment."

"Not now—no more now!" she pleaded, holding out her hand to him.
"Another time."

"But you say 'Yes,' Elizabeth—that you are my—?" But he felt that shewanted him to go now.

After he had gone, she sat there on a box for a long time in silence,gazing straight before her.

So it had actually come to pass! Her heart beat so that she could hearit herself, and she seemed to feel a dull pain there. Her face, littleby little, acquired a fixed, cold expression: she was thinking that hewas then telling his stepmother of their engagement, and fortifyinghimself for her reception of the announcement.

She expected to be called down. But no summons came; and at last shedecided to go without being called.

In the sitting-room they were all quietly intent upon their severaloccupations. Carl was pretending to read a book; but he threw her astolen, tenderly anxious look over the top of it when she entered.

Supper was brought in, and everything went on as quietly as usual, evento his customary banter. To Elizabeth it seemed as if there was a mistover them all; and when Mina once asked if there was anything the matterwith her, she could only answer mechanically, 'No.' The question wasrepeated later on, and received the same answer. She brought the supperthings in and took them out, as usual, and it seemed as if she could notfeel the floor under her feet, or what she carried in her hand.

The evening passed, and they went to bed without anything happening. Butin the partial darkness of the stair-landing, he seized her handpassionately, and said—"Good-night, my Elizabeth, my—my Elizabeth!"

She was not in a condition to return the pressure of his hand, and whenhe approached his lips to her forehead, she hastily drew herself away.

"I came out here alone to tell you this, dear, dearest Elizabeth," hewhispered, with passion trembling in his voice, and making an effort todraw her to him. "I must be on land again to-morrow. Must I go withoutone sign that you care for me?"

She bent her forehead slowly towards him, and he kissed it, and she thenimmediately left him.

"Good-night, my beloved one!" he whispered after her.

Elizabeth lay for a long while awake. She would have given anything tohave been able to cry, but the tears would not come; and she felt as ifshe was freezing internally. When at last she did fall asleep, it wasnot of him she dreamt, but of Salvé—the whole time of Salvé. She sawhim gazing at her with that earnest face—it was so heavy with grief,and she stood like a criminal before him. He said something that shecould not hear, but she understood that he condemned her, and that hehad thrown the dress overboard.

She rose early, and tried to occupy her thoughts with other dreams—withher future as an officer's lady. But it was as if all that had beforeseemed to be pure gold was now changed to brass. She felt unhappy andrestless; and it was a long time before she could make up her mind to gointo the sitting-room.

Carl Beck did not leave that morning. He had perceived that there wassomething on Elizabeth's mind.

During the forenoon, when his sisters were out, and his stepmother wasoccupied, he found an opportunity to speak with her alone: she was in afever, always waiting for him to have spoken to Madam Beck.

"Elizabeth," he said, gently smoothing her hair, for she lookeddispirited, and stood with her eyes fixed upon the ground, "I couldn'tleave without having spoken to you again."

She still kept her eyes upon the ground, but didn't withdraw herselffrom his hand.

"Do you really care for me?—will you be my wife?"

She was silent. At last she said, a shade paler, and as if with aneffort—

"Yes—Herr Beck."

"Say 'du' to me—say Carl," he pleaded, with much feeling, "and—look atme."

She looked at him, but not as he had expected. It was with a fixed, coldlook she said—

"Yes, if we are engaged."

"Are we not then?"

"When is your stepmother to know it?" she asked, rather dragging thewords out one after the other.

"Dear Elizabeth! These people at home here must notice nothing for—forthree months, when I shall be—" But he caught an expression now in herface, and something in the abrupt way in which she drew her hand fromhim, that made him keep back what he had originally intended to say, andhe corrected it hastily.

"Next week, then, I'll write from Arendal and tell my father, and thenlet my stepmother know what I have written. Are you offended,Elizabeth—dear Elizabeth? or shall I do it at once?" he broke outresolutely, and seized her hand again.

"No, no—not now! next week—let it not be till next week," she cried,in sudden apprehension, returning the pressure of his hand at the sametime almost entreatingly—it was the first he had had from her.

"And then you are mine, Elizabeth?"

"Yes, then"—she tried to avoid meeting his eye.

"Farewell, then, Elizabeth! But I shall come back on Saturday. I can'tlive 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 shedidn't look after him, and went in with bowed head the opposite way.

Small things often weigh heavily in the world of impressions. Elizabethhad been overpowered by what seemed to her the magnanimity of his naturewhen he had declared that he would elevate her into the position of hiswife; she felt that it was her worth in his eyes which had outweighedall other considerations. That he should shrink from the inevitableconflict with his family she had on the other hand never for a momentimagined. She had no doubt felt herself that it would be painful, buthad stationed herself for the occasion behind his masculine shield. Whenhe now so unexpectedly began to press for time, at first even proposingto be away himself when the matter came on in his home, a feeling tookpossession of her which in her inward dread she instinctively clutchedat as a drowning wretch at a straw, as it seemed to suggest apossibility even now of reconsidering her promise.

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

On Saturday evening he came, and the first he greeted was herself: heseemed almost, as she passed in and out of the room quiet and pale, asif he didn't wish any longer to conceal the relations now existingbetween them.

He had with him a letter from his father, which was read aloud when themeal was over. It was dated from a South American port, and mention wasmade in it of Salvé among others. Off Cape Hatteras they had had stormyweather, and had their topmast carried away. It remained attached by acouple of ropes, and with the heavy sea that was running, was swingingbackwards and forwards, as it hung, against the lower rigging,threatening to destroy it. Salvé Kristiansen had come forward in theemergency and ventured aloft to cut it adrift; and as he sat there thewhole had gone over the side. He fell with it, but had the luck to becaught in a top-lift as he fell, and so saved his life. "It was pluckilydone," ended the account, "but nevertheless all is not exactly rightabout him, and he is not turning out as well as he promised."

"I never expected very much from him," remarked Carl, with acontemptuous shrug of his shoulders; "he's a bad lot."

He didn't see the resentful eyes which Elizabeth fixed upon him forthese words, and she sat for a long while afterwards out in the kitchenwith her hands in her lap, silent and angry, thinking over them. Aresolution was forming in her mind.

Before they retired to rest, Carl whispered to her—

"I have written to my father to-day, and—to-morrow, Elizabeth, is ourbetrothal-day!"

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

"Forgive me that I cannot be your wife, for my heart is given toanother.—Elizabeth Raklev."

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

"Madam Beck," Elizabeth said, quietly, "I am going to confide somethingto you, and ask for your advice and assistance. Your step-son has askedme to be his wife. It was last Sunday—and I said yes; but now I havechanged my mind, and am going back to my aunt, or farther away still, ifyou 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 anincredulous and rather scornful expression; but as she came to feel thatit might all be true, she raised herself involuntarily higher up in thebed.

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

"Because he has written to his father about it to-day, and means to tellyou and the rest to-morrow."

"So—he has already written? That was his object, then, in bringing youinto the house here," Madam Beck added, after a pause, with somebitterness.

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 wherehe 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 presentoccasion. The Dutch skipper Garvloit, who had married her half-sister,happened just a day or two before to have been inquiring for a Norwegiangirl, who would be able to help in the house; and here was just theplace for Elizabeth. She had only to go on board his vessel, that layover at Arendal ready to sail.

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

The smooth sound lay full of shining stars between the deep shadows ofthe ridges on either side, with a light from a mast here and theredenoting the presence of vessels under the land. A falling star wouldnow and then leave a stream of light behind it; and she felt a sense ofjoyous exultation that she could only subdue by rowing hard for longspells. 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 heraunt's, to whom she announced that Madam Beck wished her to take a placein Holland with Garvloit, who was on the point of sailing. She showedher 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 Itold Madam Beck."

"So you wouldn't have him?" was the rejoinder, after an astonishedpause; "and the reason, I suppose, was that you would rather haveSalvé?"

"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, tothe preparation of the morning coffee.

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

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

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

Out at Tromö the surprise was great when it was found that Elizabeth hadgone. Carl Beck had found her letter under the door, but had neverimagined that she had left, and had gone out with it in violentagitation of mind and did not come home again till late in theafternoon. Madam Beck had in the meantime confided the matter to herdaughters, and they would understand, she said, that not a word of itmust be mentioned outside the house.

Although his eyes sought for her unceasingly, Carl made no expressinquiry 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 forawhile as if petrified. Looking scornfully at them then, one afteranother, he said—

"If I thought that I had any of you to thank for this, I'd—" here heseized the chair he had been sitting on, dashed it down upon the floorso that it broke, and sprang up-stairs.

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

CHAPTER XII.

It was some months after. The Juno lay ready to sail in the roads ofMonte Video, where she had taken in hides as part of her home cargo. Theremainder, of coffee, she was to load at Rio, and in the meantime shehad filled up with coals for that port. She was lying in tropicalcostume, with awnings over the fore and after deck as a protectionagainst the fierce rays of the sun; and the crew were going about incorrespondingly airy clothing, with open shirts and tucked-up canvastrousers, brown and shiny with perspiration, and gasping after everybreath. It was the hottest season of the year. The pitch was melting inthe chinks between the planking of the decks, and the tar running downher sides.

They had lain thus for a couple of days, hoping to receive beforestarting the post, which they had been disappointed in not finding ontheir arrival. And what a disappointment this can be, only those whohave 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, butthe longing to hear from home is the strongest feeling among sailorsafter 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 theprecious packet in his hand. He sprang up the accommodation-ladder anddisappeared aft without a word to where the captain was sitting by asmall table with a carafe and glass before him, mopping his bald head inthe heat.

"You've got them at last, then," he said, as the mate laid the packet onthe 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 hisson, and his face brightened. He ran rapidly over the others, making acomment here and there according as he was acquainted with thecirc*mstances of the men to whom they were addressed, and gathering themup in a bundle, handed them over then to the mate, with a cheery "Hereyou 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 mainhatch, the whole crew were assembled, with the exception of a straggleror two who had happened to be aloft, and who were now to be seenhurrying down the ratlines.

The only one who neither expected news, nor cared apparently whether hereceived a letter or not, was Salvé Kristiansen. While the parcel wasbeing distributed, he remained standing by the wheel, intent apparentlyupon watching the movements of the two men who were hoisting up andmaking fast the jolly-boat. His lips were compressed; and when he gavethe men a hand now and then, it was not a very willing one, and wasgenerally accompanied by some bitter or sarcastic remark. His naturesince they last sailed from Arendal seemed to have turned to gall; andwhen the captain had casually mentioned in his letter home that he wasnot so well satisfied with him, he had had good reason for saying so.There had been all sorts of unpleasantness between them; and if anydiscontent or difference between himself and the crew prevailed, Salvéwas 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 oneevening in the moonlight; and as complaints had been recently made aboutthe food, a good deal of which had become worse than bad from theeffects of the hot climate, he had at once attributed to Salvé thispointed method of drawing his attention to the subject again. It seemedalmost as if he had some cause for bitterness against himselfpersonally; and as he had always treated him with marked favour, he wasat a loss to comprehend the reason for it.

With the exception of the captain, who had retained his seat at theafter-end of the poop, Salvé was soon the only human being to be seen ondeck. The whole crew had disappeared, and might have been found poringover their letters two and two, or singly, in the most out-of-the-wayplaces, from the main and fore top even to the bowsprit end, where onehad 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-audibleexclamations, 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 anoccasional fierce look over at Salvé, in the attitude of a man besidehimself with anger. At last he brought the hand in which he held theletter down upon the table with a force that sent the decanter and glassflying, and thrusting the fragments aside with his foot, he strode upand down the deck for a couple of minutes and then came towards Salvé asif he meant to say something; and as the latter could very well perceivethat it was not going to be anything pleasant, his countenance assumedan 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 lookedfuriously about him, as if surprised, although he knew very well howthey were occupied, and that it had been decided not to weigh anchoruntil 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 raisedhimself and came forward with the letter he had been reading in hishand.

"Stand by to man the windlass! Pipe all hands!" ordered the captain, androared the command again gratuitously through the trumpet.

The crew turned out from their several retreats with sour looks. Theyhad expected to be left alone until after tea-time, when there wouldhave been a general interchange of news on the forecastle; and now therecame instead a hail of orders from the speaking-trumpet, as if thecaptain 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 onaccount of their leave ashore at Monte Video having been, as theythought, capriciously refused; and it was therefore something morenearly approaching to a howl than a song that was now heard from thecapstan and from the party who were hoisting the heavy mainsail. Thecustomary 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 heavyheave with which the enormous anchor was catted up to the bows, the matetried 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," saidSalvé, coming up at the moment from his own heavy work with thecross-jack; "when we weather the point, all the lee-sails have to beset"—and the remark had the effect which he desired of intensifying theprevailing irritation.

In spite of the vertical heat, the hail of orders from the captain'strumpet continued, accompanied by reprimands and fault-finding allround, until the crew were nearly in a state of mutiny, and it was notuntil late in the evening that he showed any signs of exhaustion.

His temper had not improved next day. He looked as if he had adetermination 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 anoutburst of some kind or another. He knew that Salvé had made love toElizabeth, and had wished to make her presents since she had come intohis house; and that the same girl was now to be his son's wife—the ideawas absolutely intolerable!

At last he could contain himself no longer. Salvé had just deposited acoil of rope aft, and the captain, after watching his movements withevidently suppressed irritation, broke out suddenly, without preface ofany 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 wascoming.

"The post," the captain continued, in a bitterly contemptuous tone, "hasbrought me the delightful intelligence that my son has engaged himselfto 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 canhave that to fret over now instead of the food;" and as the mate wascoming up the cabin stairs at the moment polishing the sextant, heturned 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, whocalled himself Nils Buvaagen, but whose name had been changed by theothers to Uvaagen (not-awake), on account of his evident predispositionto sleep. He was incredibly naïve and communicative, especially on thesubject of his wife and children (of which latter he apparently had hisnest full), and had soon become the butt of the ship. Salvé was the onlyone who ever took his part, and that only because he saw all the othersagainst him; and having also been the means of saving his life when hehad been washed overboard one dark night in the English Channel, he hadinspired the simple fellow with a perfectly devoted attachment to him.

They were up on the mainyard together that evening, where they had beenhelping to carry out an order with the mainsail. The rest had gone downagain, but Salvé, who felt a longing to be alone, had remained aloft,and was standing on the foot-rope, with his elbows resting on the yard.Nils's sympathetic eyes had perceived from his behaviour and wholeappearance that day that there was something unusual the matter withhim; and when he saw that Salvé remained behind, he remained too,observing that it would be pleasant to cool for a while before going totheir hammocks in the close air between decks.

The sky above them blazed like a cupola "inlaid with patines of brightgold;" obliquely from the horizon the Southern Cross was rising, and theevening star shone in the warm night, before the moon had yet risen,with a silver gleam that threw clear light and shadow upon the deckbelow; while the vessel seemed to plough through a sea ofphosphorescence, leaving in her wake a long trail of bluish glitteringlight.

From the forecastle below came wafted up a sentimental sailor's song,the burden of which was pretty well summed up in the two concludinglines:—

"But never more her name I'll utter till I die,
For rosy though her lips were, her heart it was a lie."

It sounded melancholy at that hour, and Nils, to judge from theoccasional sighs with which he had accompanied it, was moved. When itcame to an end, Salvé turned suddenly to him.

"You are distressing yourself for another's sweetheart now, Nils. Whatwould you have done if it had been your own?"

"My wife!" He had evidently not for the moment taken in the idea, andlooked with all his heavy countenance at Salvé.

"Yes. Wouldn't you have liked to see her sunk to the bottom of the sea?"

"My Karen to the bottom of the sea! I'd go there myself first."

"Yes; but if she had been unfaithful to you?" persisted Salvé, seemingto take a fiendish delight in bringing home the idea to the poor fellow.

"But she is not," was the rejoinder.

Nils had no genius for the abstract, and no more satisfaction was to begot out of him. But at the same time he had been shocked, and went downshortly after without saying a word.

Salvé still remained aloft, the dull consciousness of Elizabeth'sengagement with the captain's son alternating with a more active desirefor revenge upon the captain himself for the manner in which he hadconveyed the information; and the result of his brooding up there uponthe yard was a determination to desert as soon as the Juno arrived atRio. He would never go back to Arendal; and he would no longer tread thesame deck with the father of Carl Beck.

Later on in the night, when the moon had risen, Nils, who had not beenable to sleep in his hammock, came up to Salvé again, and drew him asidebehind the round-house, as if for a private conversation.

"What would I have done? you asked. I'll tell you," he said, after ashort pause, and his honest face seemed to express a vivid realisationof the whole misery of the situation. "I would have died upon thedoorstep!"

Salvé stood and looked at him for a moment. There came a strange pallorover his face in the moonlight.

"Look you," he said, ironically, laying his hand upon the other'sshoulder, "I have never a wife; but all the same, I am dead upon thedoorstep—" Then, in the next breath, and with a sudden change of tone,he said, "Of course I am only joking, you know," and left him, with ahard, forced laugh.

Nils remained where he was, and pondered, not knowing exactly how totake it. It was possible Salvé had only been making fun of him. Butanother feeling eventually predominated. It told him that he had had aglimpse into a despairing soul; and he was profoundly moved.

CHAPTER XIII.

They stood slowly away to the north-east along the coast of Brazil.Every morning, towards the end of the dog-watch, when the sun rose inits gorgeous majesty from the sea, there came a refreshing breeze offthe land, bringing with it the perfume of a thousand aromatic herbs;albatrosses and sea-gulls circled round the ship; flying-fish were to beseen in shoals; and all nature, animate and inanimate, seemed to befreshened for the time into activity and life. But gradually the breezewould become warmer and lighter, and then die away altogether, so thatbefore noon the sails would hang flapping against the mast. Theyscarcely made five knots in the watch, and the heat during the greaterpart of the day was unbearable—as unbearable almost as the captain'stemper, which showed no signs of improvement, and which vented itself ina systematic grinding of the crew, who, Captain Beck declared, weregetting into intolerable habits of idleness.

Strange things occurred on board just at this time, which, taken inconnection with the captain's mood, produced an uncomfortable feelingthat there was some evil influence at work by which both the ship andthe captain were possessed. Groans had been distinctly heard down in thehold among the coals; and the sailmaker affirmed that on several nightsin succession he had seen a man go from amidships aft along the bulwarkrailings, stand still and point with his hand to the compass, and thendisappear in the wake of the ship. Another declared that he had seen theship's genius proceed in the same direction and jump overboard—cap andall he was no higher than a half sea-boot; and when the genius deserts aship, it betokens in the sailors' superstitious creed that she is aboutto founder.

The unaccountable sounds in the hold continued, and changed one day whenthe hatch was battened down to a kind of wail, which ceased, however,when, for fear of an explosion of coal-gas, it was taken off again. Onthe following day the cook, who had gone down for water, came hurryingback with a scared face, and declared that he had seen a man sittingthere in a red jacket.

"It is the ship's genius lamenting the ship," was hesitatingly suggestedby some. But when the cook objected that the creature was at least aslarge as Big Anders the boatswain, and proceeded besides to endow himwith sable colouring and claws, the terror reached its height.

The captain had hitherto replied to these, as he conceived them, freshattempts to provoke him, by still further grinding; but when this lastobservation of the cook was communicated to him, he broke outscornfully, pointing at the same time with the bitten mouthpiece of hisold meerschaum pipe at the speaker—

"I think there is a sufficiently stupid devil in the hold sticking inevery one of you rascals. Isn't there one of you with courage enough togo down into the coal-hold? or must I go myself?"

The first mate proposed to accompany him; but Salvé now came forward anddeclared that he, for his part, would as soon go down into the hold asup aloft. "A man won't sweat half as much at that work," he added, withsarcastic significance.

He went down accordingly with a light, and after a few moments' searchcame upon a miserable, half-famished wretch, who had squeezed himself inbehind the water-butt. He was as black as a negro from the coal-dust,and declared tremblingly when he came up on deck, that he had desertedfrom his regiment in Monte Video, which was an offence punishable bydeath, and that he had thought he might remain concealed until thevessel arrived at Rio; that he had come on board in the dark on the lastevening they lay in the harbour, and had hidden himself under the coals;and that when they had battened down the hatch he had been nearlysuffocated with coal-gas, and had lain and groaned. Occasionally he hadfound an opportunity at night in the dark to climb up into thejolly-boat astern, and had lain there and breathed fresh air untilnearly sunrise. Once or twice he had been into the caboose and gotsomething to eat; and sometimes he had stopped by the compass, as itseemed to him their journey was never coming to an end, and he wanted toassure himself that the vessel was really steering a northerly course toRio, as he had heard from some one in the harbour she intended to do.

He was a young, slightly-built man, with small quick eyes, about Salvé'sheight, and apparently a Spaniard or Portuguese, but could make himselfunderstood in English.

The captain had some doubts as to the truth of his story, as his rankappeared to be superior to that of a common soldier; and from hisanxiety not to betray his presence in the ship, even after they had gotout into the open sea, he concluded that he was a political refugee, whoat that time would not be very safe even at Rio. He ordered food to begiven him, and promised that he should make his way ashore as best hecould, but that he was not to expect help from him, as the captain hadno intention of involving himself with the authorities on his account.

Salvé, who, like the generality of sailors, could talk a good deal ofEnglish, gradually attached himself to the Spaniard, and found him anentertaining and clever fellow.

Before a light afternoon breeze they glided at last from the sea intothe narrow channel that runs up to Rio de Janeiro—one of the loveliestin the world, with majestic granite mountains on either side, one ofwhich was already blazing in the ruddy light of the evening sun, whilethe other in shade stood out a deep violet against the clear blue of thesky above. On the one side, at the foot of the Sugarloaf Mountain, theyhad the fortress of Praja; on the other, the Castle of Santa Cruz; andfacing them on the highest point in the harbour, the slendersignal-tower that announces every ship as it appears at the entrance ofthe channel.

So beautiful was the scene that under its softening influence Salvé feltalmost inclined to regret his determination to desert. The feeling,however, lasted no longer than the beauty which produced it. The softlights died away upon the hills, and with them the softer feelings whichhad crept in upon his heart. Night settled down upon the outer world,and with it returned the gloomy thoughts that now for many days had madehis mind their home.

It had occurred to him that the Brazilian would have it in his power toassist him in effecting his purpose, when they arrived in the harbour,and he had, therefore, found opportunities of rendering him indebted tohim for many small services. He lent him clothes now to appear among theother sailors when they were mustered before the authorities, who cameon board immediately after the ship entered the harbour, and it thusescaped their notice that there was one over the number returned by thecaptain as his crew.

The harbour pilot, however—a consequential Mulatto in a Panama hat andred feather, and decorated with a badge and staff—was moresharp-sighted, and soon perceived, from the irritable tone in which thesong at the capstan was sung again as they warped the vessel round toher anchorage in the Ilha das Cobras basin, that there was discontentprevailing on board; and it was no doubt owing to a hint from him thatalready the same evening there were "runners" waiting about near them onthe quay.

Captain Beck was out of humour both with himself and with his crew. Downin a warm climate he was always irritable, and now that he believed hisauthority weakened he had become a perfect tyrant. The prospect ofanother voyage under his command was more than many of his crew couldface, and preparations were made by many of them to leave the ship assoon as they should have received whatever portion of pay on account thecaptain proposed, as is customary when a vessel is in harbour, todistribute. Salvé, however, did not wait for this, and already, thesecond night, he and the Brazilian had disappeared.

There was a sharp search instituted, with the assistance of the harbourpolice, especially in the house of one particular runner who had beenseen talking with the crew. But he gave them such full liberty to searchhis house, and showed such a clear conscience in the matter, that thepolice had to admit that they were off the scent this time.

The captain after this intrusted the nightwatches only to those amongthe crew upon whom he could place reliance, hauled off from the quayevery evening, and absolutely refused all leave on shore. He had onlyreceived the thanks he deserved, he remarked bitterly, for having helpedthat red-jacketed thief, who, by way of return, had taken from him hisbest man. Salvé's desertion, indeed, irritated him more than he cared toadmit to himself. He had, according to promise, had him taughtnavigation by the first mate on the voyage out; and had settled in hisown mind that when he himself retired from the sea Salvé should commandthe Juno for him. He certainly never would find another of equalcapacity, and at the same time so thoroughly to be depended upon; andnow all his comfortable plans were upset.

Before leaving the vessel Salvé placed his silver watch, on which he hadscratched with the point of his knife, "In remembrance of SalvéKristiansen," in the waistcoat pocket of Nils, who was snoring loud andlong in his hammock alongside; and then, unobserved by the watch ondeck, the two friends clambered over to the quay in the silent night bymeans of the shore rope, and disappeared at once into the darkness ofthe neighbouring alleys. The Brazilian appeared to be well acquaintedwith the localities, and anxious at the same time; for he avoided thelighted streets, and often stopped at dark corners to reconnoitre, andsee that the way was clear of the night police.

After picking their way for an hour among narrow lanes, they came outinto a suburb where the houses began to alternate with garden walls,over which hung orange-trees diffusing their heavy perfume through thequiet night. They had to cross an open place to the other suburb, MataPoreas, and upon the rising ground to one side of them they saw abuilding that looked like a fortress enclosed by a stone wall, whichcaused Salvé's comrade considerable perturbation. It was the house ofcorrection, before which there was always a sentry on duty.

They passed it, however, unchallenged, and after half-an-hour's furtherwalking, the Brazilian halted at last before a garden wall, in whichthere was a small wicket gate. He looked cautiously round him and saidexcitedly—

"We must climb over here, and then—we are safe."

He climbed up on Salvé's back, and so on to the top of the wall; drewSalvé up beside him, and then sprang down into the little garden andbegan to roll about on the grass as if he had taken leave of his senses,crying, "Salvado! Salvado!"

He rushed up then to the little villa that lay half overshadowed bytrees, and knocking in a particular manner at the door, called out"Paolina! Paolina!"

A female in night-dress, with a young, but rather deep voice, opened theshutter from within, and put out her head.

"Federigo!"—she said, tremblingly; and there followed then a rapidinterchange of questions and answers in Spanish which Salvé did notunderstand. He gathered merely that she was surprised to see a strangerwith him, and that he calmed her apprehensions with the word "amigo,"followed by a short explanation.

She opened the door, and fell impulsively on Federigo's neck, kissinghim on both cheeks, and sobbing. After the custom of the place, then,she offered her cheek to Salvé, and was a little surprised when heseemed not to understand her meaning, and nodded merely, as he said,half in English, half in Spanish, "good evening, señorita." It seemed toremind her, however, that in her eagerness she had forgotten hermantilla, and she left them hastily.

She came back to them again in the sitting-room almost immediately withbread, wine, fruit, and lights upon a tray; and stationed herself thenin a sympathetic attitude with her arm on her brother's shoulder, whilehe, with lively gestures, recounted his adventures. Federigo's storyseemed to be reflected from her face as from a living mirror. At onepoint her face became pale with passion; her black eyes flashed, and shemade a sudden movement with her clenched hand in the air, as if she weregiving some one a stab with a dagger. She threw her head back then witha triumphant, scornful laugh that showed her dazzling white teeth; andSalvé inferred that her brother must have killed some person or other inMonte Video, probably in self-preservation, and that he was afraid thepolice here, in Rio, should have had information of it.

He sat and gazed at her. She was a lithe, supple-looking woman, at oncegraceful and fully developed; a dark beauty of the style peculiar to theSouth, with wonderful animation in her face, and dark flashing eyes. Atthe same time the play of her features was not pleasing, Salvé thought.It reminded him too much of her brother—it was not feminine; and he wasfurther repelled by the way in which she repeatedly allowed her eyes torest upon him. He didn't know why, but Elizabeth's deep, true northernface came so vividly before him then, that he felt he could have drawnit to the life.

The not very flattering expression which this comparison had caused hisface unconsciously to assume as he looked at her, was caught,unfortunately, by Paolina, as she was on the point of tendering him herthanks in her impetuous way for what she heard he had done for herbrother. She stopped short in surprise, and evidently repressed avehemently resentful impulse, while a look unpleasant for him came intoher eyes. She went over then and took him by the hand in the same wayshe had seen him take her own on his arrival, and spoke coldly enough afew words which were meant to convey her thanks. She didn't look at himagain, not even when she presently said good-night to him, after havingwoke up the old mulatto woman who, with herself and her mother, were theonly other inhabitants of the house, and told her to make up a couple ofmat beds in the adjoining room. Federigo had before that gone in to hismother, and they could be heard in eager conversation.

In Salvé's mind a new impulse had been unexpectedly given to thoughtsfrom which the novelty of his situation should have afforded him atleast a temporary relief; and he lay long awake, thinking drearily aboutElizabeth. When he did fall asleep at last, he dreamed that he had comeinto a serpent's nest, and that he was engaged in a life and deathconflict with a huge snake, that was thrusting its forked tongue at himfrom walls, from roof, from every side; and in the gleam of itsvindictive eyes, he seemed all at once to recognise Paolina.

CHAPTER XIV.

With a view to bring himself into harmony with his surroundings, heappeared next day in his suit of fine blue cloth, which he had broughtwith him in his bundle, together with sundry other articles, and whatmoney he had still remaining from the pay which he had received at MonteVideo. That he looked well in his handsome sailor dress was evidentenough, from the surprised look with which he was greeted by Federigo'smother, when he was presented to her. She had evidently expected to seein her son's friend something in the style of the raw Brazilian sailor,a class of men who down there were generally drawn from the lowest dregsof the populace.

She herself was a withered old woman, yellow as parchment, with a massof thick grey hair gathered in a single knot at the back of her head.She wore heavy rings on her fingers, and large earrings; her smallpiercing eyes had a look of burnt-out passion; and her countenance worein a stronger degree the furtive, ratlike expression which her son'soccasionally displayed.

As regards her further characteristics, Salvé soon perceived that shewas addicted to drink. She used to remain during the greater part of theday on the shady side of the house, or on the little veranda, withacachacas and water by her side, and incessantly smoking and rollingcigarettes; and she was often quite drunk as she mumbled her Ave Maria,and told her beads on her knees before going to bed in the evening.Still the other inmates of the house appeared to have great respect forher; and it was evident that she held the threads of whatever businessthey might have on hand.

The señorita was out all the morning with the old mulatto woman, makingpurchases for the house, Federigo said, and informing herself as to whatactivity was being shown in their pursuit. When she returned, sheavoided addressing herself directly to Salvé; and he observed that shehanded over a quantity of money to her brother, which had the happyeffect of bringing into his countenance a more cheerful look than it hadhitherto worn that morning.

"What have you done to my sister?" Federigo asked one day, laughing;"you are not in her good graces. She is dangerous," he said, seriously;and added then, as if speculating on possibilities, "as long as you arein this house, at all events, you are safe. But mind, you are warned."

Federigo soon began to weary of their enforced confinement to the house,and in spite of his sister's efforts to dissuade him, began to go out inthe evenings, coming home very late, and in a gloomy, irritablehumour—evidently, from the casual remarks he let fall, having lost allhis money at play.

The second morning of his stay in the house Salvé had perceived thatthere was a want of money; and having heard the brother and sisterquarrelling one day when both were in a bad humour, he thought it bestto carry out, at the first convenient moment, the determination at whichhe had arrived, and handed over to Federigo what money he had, with theexception of a single silver piastre, saying, "That it was only right heshould pay for his lodging and board."

The money, though deprecatingly, was still accepted, and in the evening
Federigo was out once more, his sister remaining at home.

She and Salvé, on account of their ignorance of each other's language,could not hold much conversation together, and Salvé was rather glad ofthis wall of separation between them, as it left him more at his ease.She had, however, recently looked more often at him with a sort ofinterest, and on several occasions had put questions to him through herbrother. Her range of ideas was apparently not extensive, as herquestions always turned upon the same topic—namely, what the women werelike in his country; so that he soon came to know by heart all theSpanish terms which related to that subject.

They were out on the veranda together that evening, and as she went pasthis back while he was leaning over in his seat, she drew her hand as ifby accident lightly through his hair. If it had had the electricity of acat's, it would have given out a perfect shower of sparks, so enragedwas he at the advance.

When Federigo came home he flung his hat away angrily on to a chair, anddrank down at a gulp a glass of rum that was standing on the table. Heno longer wore the smart cloak he had on when he went out.

"I have gambled away all your money!" he cried, in English, to Salvé, asif careless of further reticence, and made some remark then with anunpleasant laugh to his sister, who had evidently by her expressionperceived at once how matters stood.

"There's my last piastre for you," said Salvé, throwing it over to him.
"Try your luck with it."

"He is successful in love," said Paolina, tearfully, and with a naïveaffectation of superstition—"he is engaged."

When her brother, who was balancing the piastre on his forefinger,laughingly translated what she had said, Salvé replied snappishly, withan impatient glance at the señorita—

"I am not engaged, and never shall be."

"Unsuccessful in love!" she broke out, gleefully; "and the last piastre!
To-morrow we shall win a hundred, two hundred, Federigo!"

It was clearly the conviction of her heart; and she seized a mandolinand began to dance to her own accompaniment, her eyes resting as she didso upon Salvé with a peculiar expression.

"Quick, Federigo!—why not this evening?" she cried, breaking offsuddenly with a laugh, and throwing the mandolin from her on to thesofa. "To-morrow his luck may be gone."

She seized her brother's hat, crushed it down upon his head, and pushedhim eagerly out of the door, going with him herself to open the wicket.

She came back then to Salvé, and as they sat tête-à-tête in thelamplit room with doors and windows thrown wide open, the moonlightgleaming on the dark trees outside, and the night air perfumed with thescent of flowers, she endeavoured to ingratiate herself with him bypouring out his rum-and-water and by rolling his cigarettes, an art inwhich it appeared from her laughter and gestures that she thought himawkward. She was in a state of feverish excitement, and kept darting offto the wicket and back again.

Salvé sat and smoked, and sipped his glass unconcernedly, whilst sherocked herself backwards and forwards in a rocking-chair, with her headthrown back, and her eyes steadily fixed upon him. He heard a sigh, andshe said in a low, ingratiating tone—

"I am afraid Federigo is unlucky."

Salvé was not so stupid as not to comprehend her meaning. He was quiteaware that she was handsome as she sat there with her hand on her knee,and her well-formed foot gracefully brought into view; but his feelingwas exclusively one of indignation that such a common Brazilian baggageshould presume to bring herself into comparison with Elizabeth. He flungaway his cigar impatiently, and went down into the garden, withoutattempting to conceal his aversion. He hated all women since the one hehad fixed his heart on had disappointed him, and he strode backwards andforwards now in more than usual indignation against the sex.

He was still pacing the garden when Federigo came back, heated andtriumphant, with his cloak on his shoulder and a bag under his arm.

"Nearly three hundred piastres!" he cried, clearing the garden in asuccession of bounds.

His sister had been asleep on the sofa, and sprang up in ecstasy at theintelligence; and they proceeded then with childish glee to spread outthe silver on the table, and divide it into three. When Salvé absolutelyrefused to take more than his one piastre back again, there cameactually a look of humble admiration into the señorita's eyes. She couldnot comprehend such an act of self-sacrifice, although she seemed tovaguely feel that there was something noble about it. After a moment'sconsideration she held out her hand and said—

"Señor, give me the piastre you have in your hand, and I will give youanother in return for it."

He did so, and she took it and kissed it repeatedly.

"I shall play with this one to-morrow evening," she cried joyfully, andput it into her bosom.

She carried out her intention, and came home beaming, with a wholebagful of piastres.

It seemed that the family lived only by play. The son, it is true, wasin connection with one or other of the political parties of the town,with the prospect of an appointment as officer in a volunteer corps ifany rising took place; but that did not in the meantime bring in money,and how they managed to get along when luck went against them it was noteasy to see.

Salvé meanwhile was becoming rather tired of being on land. Theseclusion had suited him well enough at first, until the señorita hadbegun to pay him attentions; but now that she evidently remained at homeall day solely on his account, to dress at him, and play off all sortsof coquetry upon him, he began to find it intolerable; and when the Junoat last had sailed, he announced one day that he meant to go down to theharbour and look for employment.

The señorita turned pale, but soon recovered her self-possession, andeven joked with him about it; and later on her brother persuaded him todefer his intention for three days, until he had attended a gathering ofFederigo's friends, which was to take place one night down in one of thesuburbs.

That evening, when her brother had gone out as usual to play, theseñorita sat down in the window of the room where Salvé was, and throughwhich he would have to pass to go into the garden. She had undone herluxuriant hair, and had put on a languishing look, and every now andthen thrummed absently on her guitar, humming gently to herself as shefixed her black eyes upon him. Salvé saw himself in a manner besieged,and felt half inclined to brush past her and escape into the garden; butit would have seemed too deliberately unfriendly. The only sign whichbetrayed his consciousness of the situation was the somewhat hasty wayin which he puffed his cigarette.

"You really mean to leave us?" she said at last sadly, in almost abeseeching tone.

"Yes, señorita," was the reply, and evidently it came from the bottom ofhis heart; he was angry, and weary of her importunity.

He had hardly said it before, thrusting her hand into her bosom, she hadsprung to her feet, and a stiletto whizzed past his ear, and stuckquivering in the wall close to his head. Her supple body was still inmotion, her face was pale, and her eyes were flashing: then with asudden transition she threw herself back and laughed.

"Were you frightened?" she cried. But Salvé showed no sign of it. He wasprovoked, but cool; and not being the kind of man who would deign toengage in a conflict with a woman, he left the stiletto sticking in thewall, though at first he had thought of seizing it.

"Look here!" she said, suddenly darting over and drawing it out, andthen practising with it, laughing all the while, at various spots on thewalls of the room, which she hit every time to a nicety.

"You were frightened—confess that you were," she said, teasingly,sitting down opposite to him, heated with the exercise she had gonethrough. She gazed into his face with her cheek resting on her hand andher elbow on the table. "You were afraid; and now you are angry. Thewomen in your country don't do such things!"

Salvé turned to her with a look of icy rebuff. "No, señorita," hereplied, curtly, and went down into the garden.

Thereupon she seized the guitar again, and began strumming anaccompaniment apparently to her thoughts. It was no longer lively musicshe played, but something of a menacing strain, in keeping with the lookin her eyes, and she seemed in a manner to hiss the air through herteeth.

Later on in the evening she came tripping over to him with a coquettishsmile, and after the custom of the country offered him a cigarette,which she had begun to smoke herself. When he rather ungallantlydeclined it, she exclaimed furiously, stamping her foot—

"Señor!"

But she recovered herself in a moment, and said laughing, with at allevents apparent good-nature, something which meant that she understoodthat this might perhaps not be a custom in his country.

Salvé felt much relieved when her brother came home, and told him thatthe meeting he was waiting for was to take place on the followingevening.

CHAPTER XV.

It was into a badly-lighted tavern, with two or three rooms leading outof one another, that his friend then conducted him. Men of the mostvarious social positions, many with a military look, and inhalf-threadbare uniforms, filled the inner rooms; and in the outer onehe had seen upon entering a number of seafaring men, who looked likeAmericans, and who nodded to him on the strength of his sailor's dress.There were several women, more or less well dressed, moving about amongthem, and others standing with eager faces over the gambling-table inthe inner room. All were drinking acachacas, and the whole place waspervaded with a cloud of tobacco-smoke, out of which there came adeafening clamour of talk.

Salvé had a seat found for him by his friend at a long table, amongst anumber of bronzed, bearded men, with large hats, leather breeches, andspurs, whose company he by no means cared about. They looked likemounted bullock-drivers, such as he had seen at Monte Video, or stillmore, perhaps, like brigands, or banditti.

"They belong to Mendez's volunteer corps," whispered Federigo, as hepresented him then to the chief of the party, who sat at the top of thetable—a powerful fellow, with a weather-beaten complexion, heavy blackmustachios, and a pair of small active eyes, which, more than onceafterwards, when Salvé was not looking, were turned critically upon him.

Every now and then they clinked their glasses together to some partytoast; but otherwise they were quiet enough at first. People of the samecalibre sat round other tables in the immediate neighbourhood; and atanother were intermingled well-dressed persons from the town, who werecarrying on a whispered conversation, and who appeared anxious.

The shouting, and the noise, and the laughter kept increasing. Therewere already drunken faces at the table, and in several directionsquarrelling and the sound of blows were beginning to be heard. Federigo,who seemed to be known to many in the rooms, had mixed with the crowd,and Salvé's neighbours on either side were now playing eagerly withdice, diving from time to time for small silver pieces into heavyleathern purses, that seemed to have been destined for sums verydifferent from what their present meagre contents represented. So manydebased, avaricious countenances as he saw around him he had neverimagined that it would be possible to collect in one spot, and he madeup his mind to have no more to do with them than he could possibly help.He might congratulate himself, he thought, if he escaped from them witha whole skin, and he felt in his breast-pocket to see that his knife wasthere.

One of the North Americans who had nodded to him, in virtue of hissailor's dress, when he entered, came over to him now and asked him tocome and sit with them; but as he rather felt himself under Federigo'scharge, he declined just then. Shortly after, to his surprise, he sawthe señorita standing at the gaming-table, with her head, which was allhe could see, beautifully dressed; and he observed that the eyes of thekeeper of the tavern—a tall, lean Portuguese, with a long, sallow face,and hardly any hair on his head, who himself presided at the table—wereturned towards her continually with a look of humble, tender concern.She was playing excitedly, and losing every time. At last she stopped,in evident irritation, and beckoned him to one side, with a certainauthority, in spite of his having the table to attend to.

They spoke eagerly together, and Salvé caught a rapid glance directedtowards himself by the señorita, which he did not at all like. She wasunnaturally pale; and he saw that she finally gave the other her hand,which he kissed with an enraptured expression, and she then disappearedfrom the room.

The landlord's face beamed the whole evening afterwards, and he bowedpolitely to Federigo as he passed the table. The latter, the next timehe came near Salvé, whispered rather scornfully—

"I believe my sister has bartered away her soul this evening, andpromised to marry that old money-bag there who keeps the tavern.Congratulate us, amigo mio!"

Salvé observed that the said money-bag conferred now more than once withthe man at the head of his own table, and was apparently making termswith him; and that the latter also, when he thought he was not observed,glanced over at himself in a way that was very far from putting him athis ease.

The American who had spoken to him before—a tall, athletic-looking man,with a fair beard round a hard Yankee face, and with a remnant of goldlace on the sleeve of his jacket—had since been at the gaming-table,and had been losing one doubloon after another.

"They don't play fair, my lad!" he cried in English to Salvé, to whom heseemed anxious to make up.

"I daresay not," was the reply; "it's a vile den."

"What country do you hail from?"

"Norway."

"Ah! Norwegian. Good sailors."

"Deserted at Rio?" he asked then, with a laugh, as if he expected, as amatter of course, an answer in the affirmative.

"Shall I play for you?" he asked presently.

"No money."

"Here's a guinea on account of your wages on board the 'Stars andStripes,' for Valparaiso and Chinchas!" he cried, with a laugh that washeard above the surrounding din; and flinging a gold piece on the table,he lost it.

He turned, and putting his hand to his mouth, shouted—

"One more on account!" and another gold piece shared the fate of thefirst.

"One more on account!" there came again, and with the same result.

Salvé had by this time had about enough of this free-and-easy andundesired playing on his account. The man's face, moreover, with all itsjoviality, by no means attracted him, and he shouted to him in asharply-protesting tone—

"Play for yourself, Yankee."

The American seemed not to be able to hear on that side, for herepeated, coolly nodding to him—

"One more on account!"

Salvé's patience was exhausted. He had been sitting all this timesqueezed up in the narrow space between the bench and the wall withpeople on both sides of him, preventing his getting out; but nowgrasping his neighbour violently by the shoulder, he sprang all at onceacross the table and over to the unabashed Yankee, with an irresistiblefeeling that, come what might, he would get out into the freedom of theopen air once more.

Just then there came from the furthest room a cry of "police." Thelights in that room were at once extinguished; and a moment after, thosein the room where Salvé was on the point of falling foul of the American(who, to his great surprise, found him all of a sudden confronting him)went out also.

Their hostile relations, however, were almost immediately turned intofriendly ones. For Salvé, who had seen the landlord making a rushtowards him, felt himself suddenly, in the midst of the confusion causedby the darkness, seized by two men and forced towards a door leading inanother direction than that in which he saw the stream was setting, andwhich no doubt was the way out.

"Help, Yankee! there's some villany on here; the small door to theright!" he shouted, with great presence of mind, and at the same momentthe door was slammed behind him. A handkerchief was tied over his mouth;he was tripped up and brought heavily to the ground, where his feet andhands were tied, and he was then shot into a dark side-room, whichseemed to be at the back of a press, that was unlatched to pass himthrough.

"H'm!" said the Yankee coolly, to himself. "I am not going to lose hispay, if I know it," and he set out accordingly in search of the police,with whom he had no outstanding account.

Salvé was certain he had heard the señorita's voice whispering in theouter room; and not long after he heard the latch in the press raised,and she stood before him with a light. She looked at him mischievously,and spilt some oil out of the lamp on to his face with a little scornfullaugh. But her expression changed then to that of a tigress burning forrevenge that is compelled to put off the gratification of her fury, andshe darted out again, clapping down the latch behind her.

Salvé lay tightly bound with his hands behind his back. But his cat-likesuppleness enabled him eventually to wriggle his sheath-knife out of hisbreast pocket, and he found no great difficulty then in freeing himselffrom his bonds.

He stood now with his knife in his hand and listened.

Before long he heard the American's voice, with the police, and theyappeared to be searching. He shouted to them; and the next moment he wasreleased.

"He is one of our crew—belongs to the Stars and Stripes," said theAmerican, arresting Salvé, who, as long as he got out of this accursedtown now, did not care in what capacity it might be, and offered noopposition.

"You have not improved your beauty, my lad," said his rescuer,derisively, as he held up the light to his face.

"I should like to have one word with the tavern-keeper before I go,"said Salvé.

"And that is what we have not the slightest inclination for," said theAmerican—who, it now appeared, was boatswain on board—in a dry tone ofauthority. "We are not going larking with the police. Besides, havingonce recovered that trifle of wages, I don't mean to risk losing itagain."

The Yankees made a close ring round their prisoner, and there wasnothing for it but to follow as he was directed. A look, however, at theboatswain gave him to understand that that question of the wages wouldbe settled between them when they got on board.

CHAPTER XVI.

The Stars and Stripes lay in the roads with the Union flag at her gaff.She was a long, black, and, at the water-line, well-shaped vessel, witha crew of thirty-two men; and Salvé was so taken with her appearancethat as they came alongside he silently congratulated himself on hisluck in getting a berth in her. They were so obliging, moreover, as togive him a berth to himself in a separate cabin below. But, to hisintense indignation, no sooner had he entered it than the door waslatched on the outside, and when he tried to kick it open, it wassignified to him that during the short time they had still to be at Rio,he was to remain in confinement, that they might be sure of him. Theheat was intolerable down there; and to add to that, there was incessantcrying and groaning going on in the hold beside him, as if it were fullof sick people. It was the vilest treatment he had ever been subjectedto.

The work of taking in the cargo went on uninterruptedly the whole night,as if they were in a particular hurry to get out of the harbour, andabout noon the anchor was weighed while the contents of the last lighterwere being taken on board.

When Salvé, some hours after, was set at liberty, they were already outin the open sea off the mouth of the channel. The captain, the threemates, and several of the inferiors in command, when on deck, woregold-laced caps and a kind of uniform, as on a man-of-war, and theofficer of the watch was armed. The crew, on the other hand, were almostto a man shabby, and they seemed to consist of men of everynationality—English, Irish, Germans, and Americans, not to mention halfa dozen negroes and mulattoes. As no one took any notice of him, he wentabout as he pleased for a while; and presently saw, with a disagreeablesensation, no less than three corpses carelessly sewed up in sail-clothdropped over the side of the ship that was turned from the land, withoutthe slightest ceremony. The uncomfortable feeling which this incidenthad aroused was anything but allayed when he heard presently from alittle pale cabin-boy with whom he had entered into conversation that ithad been successfully concealed from the harbour authorities that therewas yellow fever on board; that there were many more lying sick below;and that one of those who had just been heaved overboard, had died theday before in the very berth in which Salvé had slept that night.

In the evening he was called aft to the captain, who was standing withthe boatswain at his elbow. He was a spare, energetic-looking man, ofabout forty years of age, with thick black whiskers, marked features,and rather hollow cheeks, and with carefully dressed, glossy hair. Hewas smoking a handsome pipe with a long stem inlaid withmother-of-pearl, and took a sip from time to time from a cup of blackcoffee that was standing on the skylight.

"What is your name?" he asked, nodding in reply to Salvé's salute.

"Salvé."

"Salvé," repeated the captain, with an English pronunciation of thename; "and Norwegian?"

"He looks too respectable for the pack he'll have to herd with," hemuttered to the boatswain.

"Able seaman?"

"Yes."

"You have had three guineas on account?" he went on, after a couple ofpuffs to keep his pipe alight, as he looked into his ledger; "a month'swages."

"No, sir," said Salvé, firmly, "I have had nothing on account,"—and heproceeded then to relate the circ*mstances under which the supposedpayment had been made. "I have not been regularly engaged till thismoment, if I am so now; but up to this I have been treated like a dog,and worse."

The captain took no notice of his last observation, and merely saidshortly and sternly—

"The three guineas are owing to him, boatswain Jenkins. His place willbe in the foretop. A steady hand will be wanted among all that rabblethere."

"Another time you'll perhaps play on your own account, and not on thesailors'," he observed, turning to the boatswain; but Salvé caught theremark.

With this the conference came to an end, the boatswain's expressionprophesying that when the opportunity offered Salvé should pay for histriumph. He went about nursing his prominent chin, and twisting hisyellow whiskers, and found a victim for the present in a wretchedMulatto, who was scouring for the cook. After first correcting himsharply for nothing, he coolly felled him to the deck with a handspike,and left him lying there unable to move.

Salvé's blood boiled at the sight; but his indignation gave waypresently to astonishment when he saw the poor fellow get up and go onindefatigably with his work, after first quietly wiping his own bloodoff the saucepan. There was a limit to brutality, he thought, and in hisdisgust he almost envied him the blow he had received.

He provided himself now from the purser with a suit of seaman's clothesin lieu of the rather damaged cloth ones which he wore; and thesailmaker gave him out hammock clothes, to be paid for out of his wages.He proceeded then to hang his hammock from one of the beams betweendecks; and while he was doing so observed another man in a canvas suitlike his own, similarly occupied, not far from him. He couldn't bemistaken—it was Federigo.

The latter had, as Salvé afterwards heard, been taken by the policeduring the affair in the tavern. He had seen how Salvé had been rescuedby the boatswain of the Stars and Stripes; and having managed to escapefrom his captors on the way to the guard-house, he had sought a similarrefuge.

Salvé's indignation at his sister's baseness was still too fresh forFederigo's reappearance to be in any way agreeable to him, although hebelieved him to be innocent of any complicity in that business. At thesame time, the latter's conscience was apparently not entirely clear inthe matter, for there was a certain conscious sense of humiliation inhis expression, combined with something which made Salvé feel that hemust be upon his guard. Neither spoke to the other, and it might havebeen supposed from their bearing towards one another that they had nevermet before.

It very soon became clear to Salvé that he could not have hit upon amore unfortunate ship. The crew was composed of the dregs of the NewOrleans and Charleston docks—men with every species of vice anddegradation stamped upon their countenances, and amongst whom everysecond word was some infamous oath or blasphemy. Blows with handspikeswere of common occurrence, and brutality and violence generally were theorder of the day. There was no court of appeal, and the immunity whichany one individual might enjoy depended entirely upon how far he wasprotected by the officers—who, however, in a general way, did notinterfere in the quarrels forward—or had formed a league with others.

The Americans and the Irish banded together, and being the mostnumerous, practised a shameless system of tyranny against any who couldnot defend themselves—a miserable sickly Spaniard, who had been forcedto work until he had actually dropped, having recently been moreespecially the object of their attentions. Their supremacy, however, wascontested by a party of seven or eight tattered countrymen of thelatter, with one or two Portuguese, who were always ready with theirknives, and who formed a sort of opposition. To this party Federigo hadattached himself.

Salvé stood alone. The Americans and Irish had at first reckoned uponhaving him with them, but had gradually turned against him. They hadtaken offence at his apparent disinclination to associate with them morethan he could help. He seemed to think himself too good for them; and inaddition to that, the seaman-like qualities which he displayed made themdislike him out of envy. But their hostility was perhaps mainly due tothe boatswain, who encouraged the idea among the rest of the crew thathe was favoured by the officers. Federigo came out now in anunexpectedly friendly light; and Salvé perceived that it was only owingto him that all the Portuguese were not against him also. The result wasthat the two gradually approached such other again.

There were of course in such a collection of riff-raff, individualbullies whose hands were against every man, but who to some extent kepteach other in check. The one most feared of these was a huge,copper-coloured, scarred Irishman, who seemed periodically to bepossessed by a very demon of violence, and to be actually running overwith bad blood. He had been in irons for some time before the vesselarrived at Rio, for having one day sworn on deck that he would murderthe captain. It was with this ruffian that Salvé had first to measurehimself, the boatswain being the immediate cause.

One day when the large bell forward had rung for dinner, the boatswaingave an order which detained Salvé for some time after the others hadtaken their places at the long table in the round-house, and when hecame in everything was eaten up, and he lost his dinner. The followingday exactly the same thing happened, and he had to content himself withhis breakfast and supper rations for the day. He perfectly understoodthe meaning of it. In smartness and activity he was so far beyondcomparison superior to any of the other foretop hands, that theboatswain had not been able to find any excuse for subjecting him topunishment: he was going to try and hit him in another way. On hislonely watch that night Salvé decided what he should do if the trick waspractised a third time upon him. It would be better to bring things to acrisis at once than have his strength gradually exhausted by continuedinsufficiency of food.

The same order being given at the same time next day, he carried it outas speedily as he could, and hurried on then to the round-house, wherethe others were already at their dinner, with a bowl of meat and soup toevery two men.

He sat down by the side of the Irishman, who he saw had a bowl tohimself.

"Put the bowl this way," he said, coolly.

The Irishman merely looked at him contemptuously. He was evidentlyastonished at his audacity, but went on eating composedly.

Salvé felt that he must not be beaten.

"Life for life, Irishman," he cried, springing to his feet, and as theother also rose, giving him a blow in the face that sent him backwardson the bench against the wall.

A fierce conflict now ensued. The Irishman got up like a bleeding ox,and catching up a marline-spike that was hanging from the beam, gaveSalvé a deep wound in the cheek, the scar of which he carried his wholelife through. They drew their knives then; and Salvé's coolness andactivity soon gave him the superiority over his furious and unwieldyopponent. His movements were like those of a steel spring; and pale andsmiling, he delivered every blow with such well-calculated effect, thatthe affair ended with the Irishman, bleeding profusely andhalf-unconscious, tumbling out of the narrow doorway to save himself.

There were not a few who were glad enough that the dreaded Irishmanshould have been worsted, and it was to this feeling Salvé was indebtedfor being allowed to fight it out alone with him. He stuck his knife nowinto the table by the side of his dish, and, looking round him, asked,"Is there any one else now who would like to keep me out of my meat?"

There was no answer.

"While I am about it," he continued, without noticing the blood that wasrunning down his face and over his hands, "I'll settle this matter oncefor all. I have two days' rations owing to me. Very well. For the nexttwo days I shall keep one dish to myself. I shall see then what theIrishman or any one else thinks of it."

The Irishman was confined to his hammock the whole week withwound-fever, and Salvé had for the first time won the respect of thecrew. He felt at the same time that he had commenced a desperatestruggle, and that if he was to enjoy any sort of security in thiscompany of ruffians whom he had now set at defiance, he must take thegame into his own hands, and make himself at least as much feared as theIrishman had been. Accordingly, instead of waiting to be challenged, hedeliberately became the aggressor, and set himself to dispense justiceas he pleased.

The one who, next to the Irishman, was most dreaded, was abroad-shouldered mulatto, who carried on a petty system of pillageagainst any one that was not supported, unluckily for him, by any party;and Salvé himself had been obliged one evening to put up with having hishammock taken down, and the mulatto's hung in its place. He had seen himin several fights, and had observed his peculiar tactics; the result ofhis observations being the conviction that the man had not the strengthwhich he was anxious to make the others think he had. In pursuance ofthis policy, he had picked a quarrel with him on the head of that matterof the hammock, and with a similarly decisive result. The mulattorejoiced in the name of Januarius, and Salvé accordingly requested himto remember that there was something still owing to him for the elevenother months of the year. He was a cur by nature, and never seemed tohave the slightest desire to renew the struggle afterwards, which wasnot the case with the Irishman, with whom Salvé perceived, directly theman came on deck again, that a fresh trial of strength was inevitable.

An opportunity was not long in offering, and Salvé seized it at once, sothat the challenge might come from him. The Irishman had taken a fancyto the boots of the wretched Spaniard who was ill, and was now wearingthem.

"Irishman," said Salvé, as the other passed him, when they were loungingabout after dinner, "that is an awkward pair of boots you have on there.If you take my advice you'll return them to their owner, or—I shallhave to pull them off you."

The Irishman glared at him, but turned pale at the last threat; andSalvé's eye seemed to light up at the prospect of carrying it out. Theformer made the mistake of preparing to defend himself instead of takingthe aggressive, and in a moment was knocked down and stunned for aninstant by a couple of unexpected blows from Salvé, who flew at him likea tiger-cat. The crew gathered round. The Irishman seized a heavy ironpump-handle as a weapon, and Salvé a handspike; and Salvé kept his word.He pulled the boots off as the other lay senseless on the deck, and tookthem down to the Spaniard.

In point of physical strength, Salvé was far from being the equal ofmany of these men, who, he knew very well, were now only looking out foran occasion to get the better of him. His only chance was to take theinitiative on all occasions, and to seem the most reckless and the mostcareless of life, and the most eager to fight of them all. He thereforeflew at his man without hesitation on the slightest provocation, andwhenever he threatened took care to keep his word.

The constant strain upon his energy became at last like a fever in hisblood, and the life he was leading began to show itself in his face. Hehad come to be reckoned on board as one of those stubborn, unrulyspirits that are common enough among the dregs of humanity to be metwith in ships' holds in that quarter of the globe, and who usually endtheir career at the yard-arm, or by a bullet from the captain'srevolver. In this very ship, before they came into Rio, at the time theIrishman had been put in irons, the captain had, without any hesitation,shot down from the yard one of the crew, whom he supposed to be theringleader of the mutineers. He looked upon Salvé now with increasingdistrust, wondering how he could ever have been so mistaken in a man ashe had been in him. "But put a man to herd with rabble, and it's hardfor him not to become one of them," he said; and, deteriorated though hewas, Salvé was still the smartest sailor he had on board.

The boatswain kept out of his way now as much as possible, for he hadheard that Salvé had sworn to tear his entrails out if he gave him anyfresh cause for offence. The latter knew very well, though, that he wasmeditating something against him, and was not surprised therefore atbeing called aft one day to stand a formal trial before the captain forthe expression which he had used with regard to the boatswain, and whichhe did not affect to deny, "as the boatswain," he said, "had wished totake his life."

"I mean to leave the ship," he said, "the moment we come to Valparaiso.I am only engaged so far. But, indeed, I care little what becomes ofme," he ended, gloomily.

The captain probably had his own notions with regard to the boatswain,as Salvé escaped the severe punishment he had expected, and was onlycondemned to solitary confinement for fourteen days on bread-and-water.

"That will take you down a bit, my lad," said the captain.

The boatswain, however, made up for the leniency of his superior by alittle ingenuity of his own; and every day, when Salvé was enjoying hismeagre fare in his place of confinement, the mulatto, whom he hadtriumphed over, by the boatswain's orders, took his dinner of hot meatand ate it outside the door, close to the hole through which the lightwas admitted, that the savoury smell might make its way in and tantalisehim.

At first, Salvé rather enjoyed the repose which his confinement affordedhim; but as his hunger increased he grew irritable, and at dinner-timeone day he approached his face to the opening.

"Mulatto!" he began; and the other looked up and grinned with his whiteteeth, pleased to see some sign at last that his attentions had not beenthrown away—"that's good food you have there."

"Excellent," replied the other, mischievously, and with an inwardchuckle.

"It makes me picture to myself your future," Salvé continued, placidly,"how it will be with you when I come out again. You will be like thatlobscouse, my friend. Had that never occurred to you?"

The mulatto went on eating, but grew absent. His nature, as beforeobserved, was not a courageous one, and it was obvious that his food atlast began to stick in his throat.

"It is much the same as if you were sitting there and feeding onyourself," said Salvé, after a longer pause, during which he had watchedthe other's lengthening countenance. "That's just what it will be, mydear friend, unless—"

"Unless—?" repeated the mulatto, pricking up his ears.

"Unless you take good care to pass your dinner in here to me every dayfrom this time. There are only five days more, and I have fasted fornine, while you have been feeding away, so you are getting off cheaplyenough. If the boatswain sees you passing in food to me, you'll bepunished, so you will have to be cautious, and hold up the plateyourself before the opening, that he may think you are eating right inmy face."

These were humiliating terms; and the mulatto made no immediate reply.He merely sat with his woolly head bent down in a thoughtful attitude.But the next day he stationed his broad person with the plate in hishand up in front of the opening, and Salvé mercilessly took every morselthere was on it.

It was a matter of the last importance to him not to be reduced instrength, as he knew his life was in his own hands; and that he wasanything but taken down, and was as ready as ever for a fight, heshowed, when he came out, in a sanguinary encounter which he engaged ingratuitously for Federigo with one of the Americans, and in which itwould otherwise undoubtedly have gone hard with the Brazilian.

It was not out of any respect for him that Salvé took his part. Helooked upon him as false, treacherous, and entirely unprincipled; therewas nothing he did or said that did not seem pervaded with thesecharacteristics. But he helped him on the strength of that comradeshipwhich among these reprobates has its inviolable laws; and further thanthat, there was something akin to a personal friendship existing betweenthem. Federigo was decidedly interesting. He could talk more or less onalmost every subject, and he was full of theories which he propoundedduring their watches together, and to which Salvé eagerly listened.There was, he said, among other remarks, and in a superior manner, nosuch thing as religion, no such being as God. Such ideas were only fordunderheads, who, moreover, in every country had their own particularform of belief for the clever people and the priests to turn to theirown purposes. In reference to that, he told many stories of theimpositions practised by the priests in Brazil; and had many agreeableanecdotes, too, about the beliefs of the wretched little race whose Sunland they were passing at the time. He pronounced, in a word, for theright of the strongest, and for piastres, women, and freedom as thegreat objects of existence. What other god than Salvé, he once askedironically, had prevented the Irishman from taking the life of themiserable Spaniard down there in the hold? or what god other than Fearprevented the boatswain from felling Salvé himself to the deck with ahandspike? Although Salvé despised the speaker, his arguments made noslight impression upon him. What god, he asked himself, would save him,if he did not take care of himself among all these ruffians whosurrounded him? and had there been any such controlling Power in theworld, he thought with bitterness, a great deal in his life would havebeen very different. Conversations of this kind always made him feelthoroughly bad.

"What do you suppose," he suddenly asked, one evening as they weretalking together on their watch, "your sister meant to do with me,Federigo, if I had not escaped?"

Up to this they had avoided touching upon this tender subject, and
Federigo answered, evasively—

"I'm sure I don't know. She takes wild notions sometimes."

"Yes—but what do you think? I know you had no hand in the matter."

"H'm! I had rather not say," replied Federigo, obviously relieved, butwith a peculiar smile, as if his fancy was ranging not without enjoymentthrough the region of possibilities. "She scalded a monkey once, thathad bitten her, slowly to death with boiling-water. But her ingenuitywas endless."

Salvé felt a shudder run through him, and something in his face told theother that he had better not indulge his fancy any further; and hehastened, therefore, to add half in joke and half by way ofconsolation—

"Poor Antonio Varez will pay for her having been obliged to marry him,never fear. Yes, she is rich and happy," he concluded with a sigh, as ifhe envied her; and the subject dropped.

CHAPTER XVII.

They doubled Cape Horn, and came to Valparaiso. But, on the morning theywere to enter the harbour, Salvé, to his intense exasperation, was putunder arrest. The captain found him too useful in keeping the crew inorder forward, and therefore took the most effectual means of preventinghim from putting into execution his declared determination to leave theship on their arrival at that port.

After leaving Valparaiso they called at the Chincha Islands, took in acargo of guano for China, and shaped their course then eastward acrossthe calm southern ocean, whose lonely monotony was only broken by theoccasional appearance of one of the larger kind of sea-birds, or by thedistant spouting of a whale. On board, however, the same peace was farfrom prevailing. That little nut-shell that crept like a dot across thelimitless expanse of waters was a little floating hell, where every evilpassion raged from morning until night; and it was only by secretlyfomenting discord and divisions among the crew that the officers couldsleep with any sense of security in their berths. As it was, a largesection of them, with the Irishman at their head, had a project on handfor murdering their officers, and converting the ship into a whalingvessel. And even Salvé, in moments of bitterness and indignation at thetyranny to which he was subjected by these men, whose lives were at themercy of the crew, would sometimes entertain the thought of joining withthe mutineers, who were restrained from carrying out their designsmainly by the fear which he had inspired, and by the refusal of hissanction. Many a desperate struggle with himself he went through whenone of his tyrants passed him on deck in the dark, and the temptation tostick a knife into his back would rise strong within him, and almostmaster him. The other's life hung upon a hair, and Salvé knew it; butthat hair was stronger than he thought. Elizabeth's face, and the stillunexhausted might of early impressions, made him always shrink from thethought of having a murder on his conscience, and to that depth he neverfell, deteriorated though his character gradually became, from dailyassociation with everything that was vile, to that degree that he lostall power of believing in the existence of good amongst hisfellow-creatures, or in a higher Power.

We need follow no further this dark period of his life. After a year anda half on board the Stars and Stripes, and many a wild scene ofturbulence and riot, he brought his connection with her to a close atlast at New Orleans, where the accumulation of his wages was handed overto him.

The life on board the other vessels in which he afterwards served didnot differ greatly from that which he had left; but he had becomeaccustomed to it, and his sensibilities were blunted by long habit. Itwas not until some four years had thus passed that he again began tofeel a longing for Europe—he would not acknowledge to himself that itwas Norway exactly that he wanted to see again;—and after looking outthen for some time for a suitable ship for the home voyage, he foundhimself at last with his Brazilian friend on board a large barque thatwas homeward bound from Curaçoa, with tobacco and rum, for Rotterdam andNieuwediep.

Federigo had been his inseparable companion through all the vicissitudesof his southern life; the secret of his faithful attachment, as Salvésuspected, being that the latter had saved money, which he had turnedinto gold pieces and kept in a belt round his waist. He had never, likeFederigo, sought occasions to squander his pay on land in gambling or inother diversions. He hated women; and in the taverns which werefrequented by sailors he was looked upon as a dangerous customer, towhom it was prudent to give as wide a berth as possible. Federigo, hefancied, looked upon him as his reserve cash-box; and when on oneoccasion, after they came into port, the Brazilian proposed that theyshould desert and put their money into some mines that were veryfavourably reported of just then, and share the profits, Salvé remarkedwith perfect composure that he thought it highly probable that if theystarted upon any expedition of the kind, his friend, if he got him alonesome fine night in a lonely place, would quietly stick his knife intohim and make off with the whole. He therefore declined the proposition,but their relations nevertheless continued as friendly as before. Moneywas the only power, Salvé reflected with bitterness, and thissatisfaction at least he could now enjoy in life.

It had become so obvious to him that Federigo's attachment was more tohis money than to himself, that he determined to get rid of his irksomeattentions. Accordingly, when they arrived at Nieuwediep, he made allhis arrangements for leaving the vessel, legally this time, withoutsaying a word to him of his intention; and Federigo only heard of it atthe last moment when he met him coming up with his hammock clothes. Heturned pale, and tears came into his eyes,—whether from a feeling ofinjured friendship, or from disappointment, Salvé could not quite makeout. The expression of his face, with his restless small black eyes,resembled that of a disturbed rat. At last he fell on Salvé's neck inhis impetuous way, and broke out—

"But at any rate we must have one parting glass together this evening. Idon't know how I shall ever do without you—it is so long now since wetwo have chummed together."

Against his better reason Salvé allowed himself to feel a littlesoftened at the thought; and the remembrance of all the attachment thisscoundrel had shown for him aroused something that almost resembledemotion.

"It is no use, my friend," he replied; "what is done can't be undone.But I'll give you this evening, at all events. You'll find me waitingfor you in the Aurora."

As usual at this season of the year, there were a great many vessels inthe harbour, and the Aurora tavern was full that evening of seafaringfolk laughing and talking and singing, and renewing, or laying thefoundations of, acquaintanceships over brandy or gin; while in thelittle room over the bar, dance music was going on uninterruptedly, andthe boards were creaking under alternate Dutch schottische and Englishhornpipe.

To properly appreciate a genuine sailors' reel or hornpipe, one shouldsee it danced by men who for a whole year at a time have been battlingwith the waves and storms in every corner of the world, and who duringall that time have hardly set eyes upon a female form. They come onshore bursting with a full masculine longing for the society of theother sex, with a year's stored-up feeling to let out; and there is apositive intoxication to them in the mere dance—in the mere holding atNieuwediep Anniken or Bibecke, or at Portsmouth Mary Ann, by the waist;and Mary Ann and Bibecke perfectly understand this, and for the momentfeel themselves persons of no small importance. There is no element ofcoarseness in the feeling. The sailor is more given to sentiment properthan perhaps any other class of men, and generally speaking a moreromantic feeling for woman is cherished on board ship than anywhere elsein the world. If we wish to find in these times quietly romanticenthusiasm, we must be the companion of the sailor on his lonely watch,or listen to him as he lies on the forecastle and talks with naïvesimplicity about his wife or his sweetheart—how their attachment cameabout, and what he means to buy for her when he gets into port. Love onboard ship is a more naturally rich and varying theme than it is in thepeasant's monotonous life; and being in love, by reason of separationfrom the object of his love, is a different thing to the sailor, asomething more entirely of the heart and the imagination, which does notlose its ideal hue in the wear and tear of everyday use. A marriedsailor is always an object of quiet respect to his comrades who have nothad means to take the same step themselves; and without exaggeration itmay be said that woman is present in her truest sense in the midst ofthe often outwardly rough life on board ship—warm, loving, andvenerated, and surrounded by all the enchantment which distance cansupply. If we are tempted to think otherwise, we have not penetrated tothe simple, childlike nature which underlies the sailor's roughexterior.

The exteriors, indeed, in the dancing-room of the Aurora that eveningwere rough enough. Through the cloud of steam and tobacco-smoke, men ofthe most various physiognomies were to be seen, the majority tanned andbearded, with their hats on the back of their heads, and short claypipes in their mouths, and all in the wildest state of enjoyment,dripping with perspiration and dancing indefatigably. There were Frenchand Swedish sailors in their red woollen shirts, Norwegians and Danes inblue, with white canvas trousers, Yankees and English all in blue; andas they swung the gracefully dressed Dutch girls with their small whitecaps and little capes, and petticoats fastened up to do justice to theneat shoes and white stockings below, vying with each other who shoulddance the best and longest, the foundation of many a friendship orenmity was laid, to be prosecuted later on in the evening over a bottleof brandy or in a stand-up fight.

Salvé and Federigo were sitting over their gin in a side-room whichopened into the dancing-room, and was filled with men talking anddrinking, or with couples who came in to rest for a moment. Neither tookpart in the dancing. Salvé was gloomy and out of tune for pleasure,although, for Federigo's sake, he made his humour as little apparent aspossible. Federigo looked very disconsolate, and during the early partof the evening sat and sipped his glass abstractedly. But as the timewore on he kept filling Salvé's glass unconsciously as it were, andgetting apparently more and more drunk himself, until he several timesspilt the contents of his own glass on the floor. He became verytalkative, recalling incident after incident of their life together. "Ishall never forget you," he cried, with open-hearted impulsiveness,"never!" And as he repeated the word, there was a gleam of suppressedfeeling of some kind or other in his eye.

Salvé's attention was preoccupied at the moment. He had heard two voicesspeaking Norwegian by the window at his back, and it made his heartknock against his ribs—it was so long since he had heard hismother-tongue. They were two men belonging to timber ships, and one ofthem, very red and excited, was singing the praises of one of the girlsin the other room.

"Ah!" broke in the other, a Tonsberger, "you should have seen handsomeElizabeth in 'The Star' at Amsterdam. But she wasn't for such as you todance with, my lad."

Salvé's interest was awakened at once. He listened with strainedattention for what might come next.

"And why not?" asked the other, a little on his dignity.

"Well, in the first place, they don't dance there; and in the next, youwould want to be a skipper at least to pay court in that quarter, mindyou. I saw her in the spring of last year, when we were lying there withthe Galatea; she was talking to the captain, for she's Norwegian—and aproud one she is, too; with hair like a crown of gold on her head, andso straight rigged that it makes a man nervous to come alongside her."

Salvé sat rapt in thought, and more absent than was polite to his friendfor the rest of the evening. An idea that it might be Elizabeth had shotthrough him, and he could not divest himself of it, although the more hereflected the more certain he knew he ought to be that she had beenmarried long ago to young Beck. His mind was in a ferment, and a wildlonging now possessed him to get home to Arendal and find out forcertain how matters actually stood.

When the time came for breaking up, Federigo was drunk, and Salvé wasobliged to accompany his inconsolable friend in the darkness over thelong narrow dam down by the dock, where there was water on both sides,Federigo clinging to his arm the whole way, and leaning heavily upon it.

When they had reached the middle of the dam, Salvé saw him make a suddenmovement, and almost at the same moment he received a thrust in theregion of the heart, of such force that he staggered two or three stepsbackwards. At the same time he heard Federigo say, in a voice tremblingwith vindictive passion—

"Take that for Paolina, you hound!"

The object of his cupidity, the belt of money, had saved Salvé, who nowfelled him to the ground with a blow that sent him rolling over theembankment into the sea.

"Help! help!" came up to him from the water.

"You shall have it," replied Salvé, derisively, "for our finefriendship's sake. Throw up your knife, though, first;" and he made anoose in his handkerchief then to reach down to him. "You and your owlof a sister," he muttered as he did so, "have taught me a thing or two.I should only have had exactly what I deserved if I had been both stuckand plundered, after being fool enough to put faith for one moment inyou or any one else."

"Now, up with you!"

When he saw Federigo's form scrambling up over the edge, he said,scornfully, "Now then, at last we part. Good-bye, my old and faithfulfriend!"

With that he went his way, and heard the Brazilian screaming andstamping with rage down on the dam behind him in the dark.

CHAPTER XVIII.

An opportunity offered almost immediately for taking a passage home withthe Tonsberger before alluded to, and Salvé gladly availed himself ofit, calculating upon being taken off by one of the pilot boats off thecoast of Arendal.

It was with a strange deep feeling that he once more trod the deck of ahome vessel, and as he went about and listened to the people's talk,felt himself an object for their curiosity. The southern brown of hisface, the foreign cut of his clothes, and his whole exterior, marked himas coming from a much higher condition of sailor life than any withwhich they were acquainted, and he passed for an Englishman or anAmerican; for he purposely avoided being recognised by them as acountryman, and had made his agreement with the skipper in English.

It was certainly a long time since he had been on board a craft somiserably found in every way as this leaky old galliot was. She had beenbought by auction for a small sum at Færder; and in shape resembled anold wooden shoe, in which her skipper venturesomely trudged across toHolland through the spring and winter storms, calculating that he andhis crew could always lash themselves to something to avoid being washedoverboard; that their timber cargo would keep them afloat; and that aslong as the rigging held they could sail. He carried notop-gallant-mast, so as not to strain her; her sails were all in holes,as if they had been riddled with bullets; and where ropes had broken inthe rigging, they had been tied in clumsy knots, instead of beingspliced in proper sailor-like fashion. There was not much to boast of inthe way of navigation either; the captain keeping his log by the simplemethod of spitting over the side, or throwing a chip of wood overboard,and making his calculations according to the pace it drifted past. Thefood, too, was on a par with all the rest, and the cook could be heardbeating the dried fish with the back of an axe to make it tender. Salvéseemed to have dropped all at once into home life and ways again.

The crew were dressed in thick winter clothing, and had the appearanceof navvies rather than of sailors, but they were all fearless,hardy-looking fellows, as most of the men who risk their lives on thesetimber vessels are; and what immediately struck him with a feeling ofpleasure, was the honest expression which every countenance, withoutexception, wore. It was long since he had seen a sight of the kind, andhe felt ashamed of himself for going about with his knife ready to hand,as had been his custom for so many years, and put it away in his chestthe very first day. He took a pleasure in leaving his watch and moneyout on the top where they might easily have been taken, and was filledwith surprise and admiration when he found that they were not stirred.

He had not been able to get out of his head the idea that Elizabeth wasnow in Amsterdam, in spite of the almost certain feeling which he hadthat she had been long ago married to young Beck. His thoughts keptreturning to, and dwelling upon, this subject, and he began to sound theskipper as to whether the trade with Holland was a paying one, and topost himself up generally in all particulars. Their conversation wascarried on in a kind of jumble of English chiefly, and he gathered, atall events, that it was a lucrative business, and an occupation whichseemed likely to suit him in every way. It was adventurous, and that wasa recommendation; and a way of living at home in which he would be undernobody's orders but his own, fell in exactly with his nature. He hadmore than money enough to purchase some old craft or other, and—infact, it was decided; he would be the owner of a timber ship, and ply toHolland.

He began now to look out more impatiently than ever for land, and longedso to catch the first streak of the Norwegian coast above the horizon,as if it was something he hardly dared hope that he should live to see.He paced up and down for hours together, anathematising through histeeth the old tub with her slack sails and rolling motion—they seemedto be drifting, not sailing; and from the restlessness and impatience heexhibited, it began to be whispered among the crew that the Englishmanmust have a screw loose somewhere. When the dim outline of Lindesnaesbecame discernible at last in the far distance, there was not apalm-clad promontory in all the southern seas that could compare withit, he thought; and the pleasure he experienced was only dashed by theapprehension of what he might have to learn about Elizabeth on landing.

They were hailed shortly after by a pilot boat from Arendal, and hearrived there after dark the same evening, and went to Madam Gjers'sunpretending lodging-house until the morning.

The following day was Sunday. And as he listened to the bells ringing,and watched the townspeople, great and small, going decorously up thestreet in their best clothes to church—most of them he recognised, andamong them Elizabeth's old aunt going up by herself, with her psalm-bookand her white folded handkerchief in her hand—an indescribable feelingcame over him, and his eyes filled so that he could hardly see. Herepassing before him were all the gentleness and the purity that he hadonce believed in, when his young faith had as yet received no shock, andwhen he was as joyous and credulous as the rest; and he could not resistthe temptation of joining the stream, trusting to the alteration in hisappearance to save him from recognition.

Beside him, almost, there walked a respectable family—he knew well whothey were—with a couple of handsome daughters, in light dresses, whohad grown up since he last saw them, and a younger brother whom he didnot remember. The foreign, black-bearded sailor, with his fine clothclothes, and his patent gold watch-chain, seemed to excite theircuriosity; while he on his side was thinking how they would fly fromhim, as if a wolf had suddenly appeared in their midst, if they had anyconception of the life that he had been leading for years, half-a-day ofwhich would have filled them with more horror than they had everimagined. They would not understand it if it was described to them, andthe description would be too foul for their ears. As he quietly followedthe stream up the hill, it seemed as if all the sunny houses in hisbeautiful native town were crying out against him, and asking whether itwas possible that a man from the Stars and Stripes could be permitted togo to church as well as other people; and on entering the building hehad to summon up all his self-command—he had a feeling that he wasviolating the sanctity of the place.

He took his seat in the last pew close to the door, and watched thepeople passing up the aisle. It was like a dream; they all seemedcreatures of a purer world than his. The organ commenced to play, thesinging was begun, and he leaned his head forward on his hands,completely overcome, and trying to conceal his sobs. In this position heremained during the greater part of the service, his past life comingup, scene by scene, before him. What a gulf he felt there was betweenthe present condition of his mind and what it had been in the days whenas a boy or lad he had gone to church like the rest. He had beenfamiliar with more murder and blasphemy than the whole congregationtogether could conceive; and the simple faith he had once possessed hehad been robbed of, he feared irrecoverably. His eyes flashed then witha sudden wildness as he thought who it was that had brought him to this;and it was with a deep hatred in his heart to one of the two at least,that he left the church. In a couple who were coming out at the sametime, he recognised Captain Beck and his wife, and the sight added fuelto the flames. He hastened on; and was hardly to be recognised as thesame man who had gone up the same way so quietly two hours before.

He had meant to go over at once to Sandvigen to see his father, but hethought that before going it would be as well to find out for certainall about Elizabeth; and his landlady seemed as likely a person to beable to satisfy him as any one. He remembered well that sharp,bright-eyed little woman, and knew that she was a regular magpie forchatter, and for repeating the gossip of the town.

At that time of the day on Sunday there were no other customers in thehouse, and while she was busying herself with preparations for hisdinner, he asked casually if Captain Beck's son, the one in the navy,was married?

"To be sure he is," she replied, surprised to hear him speak Norwegian.
"He has been married for—let me see—about three years."

She looked fixedly at him.

"But who are you?" she asked; and then, as if the thought had suddenlyflashed upon her, she said, "It's never Salvé Kristiansen, who—" Shestopped here, and Salvé dryly finished the sentence for her—

"Who deserted from Beck at Rio?—the same."

Madam Gjers was agog with curiosity, and whispered, "I'll saynothing—you may trust me;" and waited eagerly then for furtherparticulars which she might take the first opportunity of retailing.

Salvé assured her that he knew of old that a secret was always safe withher, and resumed then absently—

"So the lieutenant is married?"

"This long while," she replied. "The wedding was at the house of thebride's parents; and they are living now at Frederiksværn."

"Elizabeth had no parents," said Salvé, rather impatiently.

"Elizabeth?—oh! you mean the girl the Becks took to live with them.That is quite another story," she said, significantly. "No, thelieutenant's wife was Postmaster Forstberg's daughter. The other wasjust a passing fancy—the end of it was that she had to go to Holland,poor thing! It was said she had got a place there."

"Do you know anything for certain of this?" asked Salvé, severely, andwith an earnestness that put the little madam out of countenance, andmade her be careful of her words.

"It was all done very secretly, that's true," she replied. "But she wentaway in the greatest possible hurry, and the affair was well enoughknown, more's the pity—known and forgotten now, one may say."

"What was known?" asked Salvé, catching her up, angrily. "Did you seeher, Madam Gjers?"

"Not I, indeed, nor no one else neither. The Becks were living out at
Tromö at the time; and there was just very good reason for—"

"Then neither you nor any one else who wants to take away her characterknow a jot more about the business than what you have chosen to invent,"said Salvé, fiercely and contemptuously; for although he had slainElizabeth himself in his heart, he must still defend her against theattacks of others. He felt quite sick and faint.

"I happen to know the rights of the case," he said, with a short laugh,looking her coldly and sharply in the face, "and—" he sprang upsuddenly here, and striking the table violently with his fist—"and Idon't taste another morsel in such a scandal-mongering house," he cried."Do you understand, madam? Be good enough to take what is owing to youout of that," and flinging down a handful of silver on to the table, hesprang over it, and proceeded to drag his chest down-stairs himself.

Madam Gjers exhausted herself in a flood of deprecation, the gist ofwhich was that she had only said and believed what she had heard fromevery creature in the town; but Salvé was unappeasable, and slinging hischest over his back with a rope, he went down with it to the quay, withthe intention of chartering a boat to take him over to his father. Forthe present, however, he remained sitting upon the chest, gazing outabstractedly over the harbour.

The result of his reflections was that he gave up his idea of plying to
Holland.

He took a boat to Sandvigen, but while they were on the way, he suddenlymade the boatman change his course, and put in to the slip on the otherside of the harbour. He must talk to Elizabeth's aunt. There wassomething in his mind all the time that wouldn't let him altogetherbelieve the worst.

When he went in to the old woman, she recognised him at once.

"How do you do, Salvé?" she said, quite calmly. "You have been a longwhile away—half a century almost."

She offered him a chair, but he remained standing, and asked abruptly—

"Is it true that Elizabeth—left Beck's like that—and went to Holland?"

"How do you mean like that?" she asked, sharply, while her face flushedslightly.

"As people say," replied Salvé, with bitter emphasis.

"When people say it, a fool like you of course must believe it," sherejoined, derisively. "I don't understand why you want to come here toher old aunt for information when it seems you have so many otherconfidants about the town. But anyhow, she can tell you somethingdifferent from them, my lad; and she wouldn't do it, if it wasn't thatshe knew the girl still loved you in spite of all the years you havebeen away, gadding about, God knows where, in the world. It's trueenough she left Beck's one night and came here in the morning; but itwas just for your sake, and no one else's, that she might get quit ofthe lieutenant. It was Madam Beck herself that got her a place inHolland, because she didn't want to have her for a daughter-in-law."

A wild gleam of joy broke over Salvé's features for a moment, but theyrelapsed almost immediately into gloom.

"Was she not engaged to Carl Beck, then?" he asked.

"Yes and no," replied the old woman, cautiously, not wishing to depart ahair's-breadth from the truth. "She allowed herself to be betrayed intosaying 'yes,' but fled from the house because she didn't want to havehim. She told me, with tears in her eyes, that she repented having said'no' to you."

"So that was the way of it," he rejoined sarcastically. "The 'yes' and'no' meant that the Becks wouldn't have her for a daughter-in-law, andbundled her out of the house over to Holland; and you want me to believeit was for my sake she went. God knows," he added, sadly, and shakinghis head slowly, "I would willingly believe it—more willingly than Ican say; but I can't, Mother Kirstine. You are her aunt, and want ofcourse to—"

"I'm afraid it is your misfortune, Salvé," she broke in severely, "notto have it in your power to believe thoroughly in any one creature uponthis earth; you'll be always doubting, always listening to folks' talk.With the thoughts you have now in your mind, you have at any rate nobusiness any longer inside my door. But there is one thing I'll ask ofyou," she said, with a look of mildly impressive earnestness in herstrong, clever face. "I know Elizabeth's nature well, and don't youattempt to approach her or try to win her as long as you have a trace ofthose doubts about her in your heart—it would only bring unhappiness toboth of you."

He looked dejected; and as he said good-bye to her, offered to take herhand. But she would not give it to him, and merely added instead—

"Remember that it is an old woman who has seen a good deal in the worldwho tells you this."

He went away then; and while he was being rowed across to Sandvigen hechanged his mind again, and determined that his plan of plying toHolland should be carried out.

CHAPTER XIX.

Skipper Garvloit, into whose family Elizabeth had come, occupied one ofthe many-storeyed houses, with green window-shutters, narrowentrance-doors, and polished brass knockers, after the usual Dutchfashion, in the lively street leading down to the dock in Amsterdam,with the canal on the other side, with its various bridges, and vesselsand barges of all kinds unlading, running up from it into the heart ofthe town.

Madam Garvloit had four young children, and was not very strong, so thatElizabeth's robust, healthy nature had been a perfect godsend to her inthe house, and she was content to overlook her occasional shortcomingsof manner or temper in consideration of the assistance which sherendered in every department of the housekeeping.

Elizabeth had always had a pretty strong will of her own; and here,where she virtually had the control of everything, her tendency toself-assertion had been considerably developed. The force and decisionwith which she gave her opinion about everything seemed to MadamGarvloit sometimes (although she said nothing) rather like a reversingof their relative positions; and on days when she was in a captioushumour—and those were her days of most feverish activity—she wouldeven go so far as to set aside her mistress's orders altogether. In ageneral way her moods were very uncertain: one day she would be intearing spirits, racing up and down the stairs with the children, as ifshe had been inhaling the wild air of Torungen again; and another shewould be so pensive and taciturn that they thought she must be piningafter home.

She had many admirers, both among young and old, her gay moodsattracting the former, and her serious ones the latter. Among the formerwere two young gentlemen acquaintances of the house, relatives ofGarvloit—one a smart young clerk from one of the larger counting-housesin the town, who rather affected the gentleman; and the other alight-haired, pink-complexioned, skipper's son from Vlieland. They bothcame regularly every Sunday, were frantically jealous of one another,tried to outbid each other whenever an opportunity offered, and wereboth fully convinced that they sighed in vain. She was so different,they felt, from the other specimens of femininity of their acquaintanceto whom their weak attentions had sometimes proved acceptable. There wassomething almost imperious in Elizabeth's manner at times that made themfeel quite small beside her; and however careless she might be of theconvenances in her way of speaking to them, they had very soon foundthat wherever she chose to draw the line, so far could they go and nofarther.

Madame Garvloit would take her to task sometimes for the scant courtesywith which she treated the young clerk. Elizabeth would answer that hebored her; and Madame Garvloit would insist that a young girl ought tohave tact enough not to make this evident. Elizabeth, however, was notdeficient in tact, but disliked putting a restraint upon her feelings;and it seemed to her on the whole unreasonable that a person shouldpretend that a thing was pleasant when in reality it was wearisome.

During the second autumn of her service with the Garvloits, the skipper,on his return from a trip to Norway, brought the intelligence thatLieutenant Beck was engaged to Postmaster Forstberg's daughter inArendal, and he had many messages for Elizabeth from the latter. Theywere to be married in the spring.

Elizabeth was overjoyed to hear it, for the thought had often weighedheavily on her mind that Carl Beck might be making himself miserable onher account. She judged so from her own feeling for Salvé: and as shesat alone by her window at bedtime that night, gazing out over the canaland the shipping in the calm moonlight, the quiet afterglow of a holidayevening seemed to have shed itself over her thoughts. She knew from herfriend's message that she was ignorant of what had passed betweenherself and Carl Beck; and although it was a relief to think that he hadnot taken his disappointment more to heart, the smile that played abouther lips for a moment showed at the same time that his love had beenduly appraised. As the shadow, then, of the window-frame in themoonlight, crept slowly over the wall above her bed, her thoughts glidedoff in the direction they loved best to take—over the world and faraway to Salvé.

She sat with her heavy hair falling loose over her well-shapedshoulders, and her face grew more and more sorrowful in its absentexpression, and would twitch occasionally with pain. The bitter thoughtwould recur that it was she who was the cause of Salvé's going out intothe world and becoming a desperate man. The thought haunted her; andyet, much as she wished to free herself from it, she found a pleasure indwelling on it. She saw him, in fancy, miserable and proud, with hispale face and keen, clever eyes fixed upon her in hatred, as the causeof his unhappiness, and then the idea occurred to her to put on sailor'sclothes and go and seek him out in the world. But if she were to findhim, she knew, on the other hand, that for very shame she dared not showherself before him, having as good as belonged to another; and she wouldnot for all the world read her hard dismissal in his eye. She laid herhead upon her arms on the window-sill and sobbed convulsively, until atlength she dropped off to sleep where she sat.

She had been three years in the Garvloits' house when Garvloit had themisfortune to run his vessel aground out near Amland, where she became awreck. He lost with her nearly all he had in the world, and what wasworse, all prospect of livelihood for the future as skipper.

An uncomfortable feeling prevailed now in the house, and Elizabeth sawwith regret that she would have to leave. Garvloit, who in figureresembled some thick, short-legged animal of the sea, a seal or walruscome on land, had become perceptibly reduced in flesh, and went aboutall day long in his shirtsleeves, fanning himself with a large silkpocket-handkerchief. On one particular afternoon it was observed that heindulged in this exercise with more than his usual vigour andrestlessness; and it was not without cause. He had had an inspiration.If he could no longer follow his old trade, he would try a new one; hewould set up a house of entertainment for sailors. His house being soclose to the dock, could not be more favourably situated for thepurpose, and they had ample accommodation. On the ground floor theycould have a room for common sailors, and on the floor above they hadone where captains and mates could be served.

He said nothing about it, however, to any one until the scheme had beenfully matured; and then all of a sudden one day he came into the roomwhere his wife was, with a bundle of printed placards and a large boardin his hand.

"Good gracious, Garvloit, what is that?" she cried.

He turned the board round with an important air, and without saying aword. Upon it there stood in large gilt letters, "The Star."

"This is our new means of earning our bread, wife," he said. "Next monththis sign hangs over our door, and these bills are to post on the walls,and distribute among the ships down in the harbour. Garvloit is not onhis beam-ends yet," he concluded, with self-conscious satisfaction; andproceeded then to explain how he intended to be landlord himself, andhow Elizabeth was to help him in the management of the whole.

Madam Garvloit only made one slight objection—

"You know that you can't drink ale, my friend."

Another objection, namely, what they would say at home in Norway whenthey heard that her husband had sunk into a mere tavern-keeper, she verywisely kept to herself. The important point was that they should find away of living, and they had at all events the great consolation that nowthey would be able to keep Elizabeth. What feeling of pride stillremained she got rid of in telling Elizabeth that at home they knewnothing of millionaires in wooden shoes such as were to be found inHolland; and her husband found her much more keen for his project thanhe had expected. Being accustomed to place great reliance upon herstronger understanding, he would not have been happy if she had beenagainst the plan.

Thus it came about, then, that in the crowded street by the canal oneMonday morning there appeared over one of the entrance-doors asign-board with "The Star," in letters of gold on a blue ground. It wasset up at a fortunate time and in a fortunate place, and almost as soonas the house was opened, customers from the vessels in the harbour beganto gather in, both into the down-stairs and up-stairs rooms, so thatthere was a prospect of a steadily increasing traffic. Garvloitgenerally presided himself in the bar behind the counter, at the lowerend of which there stood an array of stone mugs with tin lids; while ina recess of the wall there stuck out from beside canisters of tobacco,long and short Dutch clay pipes, a new one filled being handed to everycustomer, with whatever drink he ordered. Out of sight under the counterwhere the stone mugs stood was the ale-barrel, with its bright tap overa vessel that caught the drip; and after the same cleanly Dutch fashion,spittoons filled with sand stood in every corner of the room. Theshelves above were filled in rows with a regular apothecary's shop ofbottles and jars of spirits, and among them a goodly array ofsecurely-fastened, dark-green flasks of Dutch hollands.

Elizabeth had as housekeeper quite as much as she could do, and did notdirectly busy herself with waiting, unless there was somethingparticular required to be done for the up-stairs customers.Occasionally, however, she would come into the bar also, on some errandor another, or to make sure that nothing was wanted; and the fame ofhandsome Elizabeth of "The Star" contributed not a little to bringcustom to the house.

Such Norwegians as came to Amsterdam with timber—the majority unloadedtheir cargoes up at Pürmurende or Alkmar—invariably patronised "TheStar." Elizabeth used to talk to them as countrymen of her own; and ifshe heard that any of them had been across the Atlantic, she wouldquietly, and as if quite casually, ask if perchance they had come acrossor had heard anything of a sailor of her acquaintance called SalvéKristiansen who hailed from Arendal. No one had ever heard of him, andshe had begun to fear that he might be lost to her for ever.

One forenoon, however, when she had a great deal to do in the house, shewas passing quickly through the room up-stairs, and there sat at one ofthe small tables, with an untouched mug of ale before him, a bearded manin a blue pea-jacket. In her hurry she had set him down as some mate orcaptain; but there must have been something about him that attracted herattention, for she turned again at the door for an instant, and lookedat him before she went out. He was so pale—and he had sent her onelook.

As she stood outside the door she knew it was Salvé, although she hadalways pictured him to herself as a common sailor. She stood theretrembling all over, and fumbling with the latch of the door in thegreatest agitation, evidently debating with herself whether she shoulddare go in again. She pressed upon the latch, in the certainty that itwould go up before she had actually decided that she would go in; and itdid so. The door opened again of itself, and Elizabeth entered withdowncast eyes, and scarlet in the face, and passed through the room,making a slight inclination of her head, as if for greeting, as shepassed him. She had reached the opposite door when she heard a quietbitter laugh behind her.

At once she turned, with pride in every feature of her face, and lookedat him.

"How do you do, Salvé Kristiansen?" she said, firmly and quietly.

"How do you do, Elizabeth?" he replied, rather huskily, getting up andlooking confused.

"Are you lying here in Amsterdam with some vessel?"

He sat down again, for there was something in her manner that deniedapproach.

"No; in Pürmurende," he replied. "I only came in here to—"

"You are in the timber line, then, now?"

"Yes—Elizabeth," he ventured to add, in another tone, which had a wholevolume of meaning in it. But she took her leave of him now in the sameproud manner, and left the room.

Salvé sat for a while with compressed lips, looking down upon the tablebefore him. When she turned round the first time at the door, somethingtold him that she would come in again; but he had expected quite adifferent kind of scene. A good deal of the tyrant had been developed inhim since they had last met; and when she had come in so quietly and sohumbly, with the acknowledgment of the great wrong she had done himwritten upon her face, he felt himself at once, with a certain bitterand devouring pleasure, upon the judgment-seat. He must first see hercrushed before him; then he would have forgiven her, and loved her withall the passion of his soul.

But as she stood there by the door, looking so grand in her pride, andso pale with repressed mortification, and spoke so calmly, he had feltthat in that moment he had been separated farther from her than ever hehad been in all his wanderings at the other side of the globe.

He sat there with his mind in a chaotic state of desperation and sorrow,and of anger with himself. What a grand creature she was! and he—howpitiful and petty! He set down the mug, which he had been absentlytoying with, hard on the table, and went out.

For a long while he wandered about the quays in a state of gloomyindecision, stopping every now and then to run his eye over theshipping, and his expression becoming darker still every time he did so.From long practice he could tell by the appearance of every vessel whattrade it was engaged in. One was a coffee ship from Java; the nextcarried general cargo to all parts of the world; there was another thatbrought sugar and rum from the West Indies; and a fourth, that from itssquare build and breadth of beam must be a whaler returned fromSpitzbergen. He thought of their long voyages, and of the life withoutroot or tie that was passed on board them—was he to go back to thatlife again? It depended on Elizabeth; and he had not much hope.

To his impatient nature delay was intolerable; and he had half made uphis mind to have his fate decided at once. In spite of his agitation,however, he could still think with coolness; and he knew that if he wasto have any chance at all, he must wait until the first unfortunateimpression had had time to pass off.

It had been a grey, foggy autumn day, but was now clearing, and bluepatches of sky were coming out; and as he crossed the bridge theafternoon sun shone out, and sent a ray of glittering light against thewindow-panes of the street along the canal. Up in Garvloit's houseElizabeth was standing at the open window—she, too, that day had neededto be alone with her thoughts. Salvé saw her, and stood still for amoment contemplating her as she leant out over the window ledge.

"That dear head shall be mine," he burst out then passionately, andwithout knowing it, aloud; and the next moment he was at Garvloit'sdoor.

Elizabeth heard the door of the room open behind her; and when she sawSalvé unexpectedly standing before her, she sank down for a moment on toa chair, but got up the next with a scared look, almost as if he wassome hostile apparition.

"Elizabeth!" he said, gently, "are you going to send me out again intothe world? God only knows how I shall come back if you do."

She did not answer, but stood looking at him with a rigid expression,and pale as death; she seemed to have forgotten to breathe, and to beonly waiting for him to say more.

"Be my wife, Elizabeth," he asked, "and I shall grow up into a good managain. What a pitiful creature I have been without you, you have alreadyseen sufficiently this morning."

"God be my witness, Salvé," she answered, the tears bursting into hereyes with emotion which she tried to control, "you alone have always hadmy heart—but I must first know in perfect truth what you think of me."

"The same as I think of God's angels, Elizabeth," he said from hisheart, and tried to take her hand.

"Do you know that I—was once very nearly engaged to young Beck?" sheasked, reddening, but with a steady look. "I didn't know my real selfthen, but was thinking only of folly and nonsense, until I was obligedto fly from it all."

"Your aunt has told me all about it, Elizabeth. Don't let us mention thesubject again."

"And you haven't a doubt about me in your heart? For that I never willbear, Salvé, like to-day,—I can't bear it, do you understand?" shesaid, with a shake in her voice, and looking as it were down into hisvery soul.

"Doubt!" he said; and for that moment, at all events, he was evidentlyconvinced that she had never given her real heart to any one buthimself.

A look of inexpressible happiness came into her face; he caught her intohis arms, and they stood as if they never would let go of each otheragain, cheek to cheek, not speaking, not thinking even. There wassomething convulsive in their embrace, as if they could not believe inthe reality of their happiness, and as if they felt an instinctive dreadthat they should lose it again.

Unobserved by either of them the door had opened, and in the doorwaystood pursy Garvloit, gazing in helpless bewilderment at the scenebefore him. At last Elizabeth caught sight of him, and—not with anyconfusion, but only eager to communicate her happiness—exclaimed—

"It is my lover—"

"Your lover!" and he fell back a step, as if he did not know what he wasdoing.

"My name is Salvé Kristiansen, master of the Apollo," added Salvé,without letting her go, and feeling everything around him infinitelysmall at that moment.

Garvloit turned round and shouted several times from the top of thestairs, raising his voice at each repetition, "Andrea! Andrea!" to hiswife; and as she did not come immediately, he stumbled as fast as hiscorpulence would allow him down the stairs, pausing, however, with avacant look upon the last step.

Madam Garvloit came out with her work in her hand, and asked what thematter was.

"The matter is," replied her husband, dismally, "that I am ruined. Thereis Elizabeth up there sitting with some skipper, God knows whom, who shesays is her lover."

"Is it possible?"

"Go and see for yourself;" and as his wife hurried past him up thestairs, he added in the same dismal tone—"Who shall we get to lookafter the house now? we shall never have another like her;" and hesighed profoundly.

When Madam Garvloit appeared at the door, Elizabeth finished herinterrupted explanation.

"I have known him ever since I was a little girl," she said.

It was at once evident to her mistress that there must be a romanticstory here; but though brimming over with curiosity, she deferred herquestions until a more convenient season. In the meantime she manifestedthe most lively sympathy; and after winning Salvé's heart by telling himwhat a treasure Elizabeth had been to her, she begged that as long as heremained in Amsterdam he would come in and out of the house as hepleased.

CHAPTER XX.

When Madam Garvloit had made some excuse next morning to leave the twoalone together in her sitting-room, Salvé took out of his pocket a smallparcel, and opening it deliberately, said, with a certain solemnity—

"Five years ago, Elizabeth, when I was in Boston, I bought these rings."He took them out of the paper, and laid them in her hand. "I have had agood deal to bear since, but you see I have kept them all alongnotwithstanding."

She threw her arms round his neck, hid her face upon his breast, and hecould feel that she was crying. She tried them on then, both on the samefinger, and holding up the hand to show him, said—

"That is the first ring I ever possessed."

A shadow passed across his face, and it flushed slightly; and she onlythen perceived what connection of ideas her remark might have suggested.

He had three days to spare before he was obliged to be back atPürmurende on board the old brig of which he was now master, and withwhich, patched and leaky though she was, after his sailor's pride hadbeen overcome, he had grown to be well satisfied enough—moreparticularly, perhaps, because she was his own. The happiness of thesedays was not marred by a single further incident to remind him of thepast; and it was only on the day that he was to leave that the foulfiend Distrust was again awakened in his unlucky heart.

It was a Sunday, and after the morning service there was to be a sort ofpopular fête in Amsterdam. At the famous town-hall, where, inHolland's great days, when De Ruyter's and Van Tromp's guns werethundering in the sea outside, the great merchant princes used to sitround the republican council-board, was to be exhibited that day, forthe first time, the new picture of the young Dutch hero, Van Spyck, whoblew up his ship in the war of 1830 against Belgium.

Salvé and Elizabeth joined the stream, and even caught some of thenational enthusiasm prevailing in the crowd that was swaying backwardsand forwards in the courtyard, where a band was playing the stirringnational air, "Wien Neerlands bloed door de aders vloeit."

At last they found themselves before the canvas. It represented theyoung cadet of seventeen years on the gunboat at the supreme moment.

Elizabeth stood with her hands clasped before her silently engrossed,while Salvé kept her from being pressed upon behind.

"Look!" she said, turning half round to him, but without taking her eyesoff the picture,—"the Belgian captain is inviting him to surrender. Hehas no choice—they are too many for him. But don't you see the thoughthe has in his mind?—you can read it in his face. And what a finefellow he looks, with his handsome uniform, and his epaulets, and hisshort sword!" she said, in a lower tone, with a revival of her oldchildish enthusiasm for that kind of show.

Her last words were like a dagger's thrust to Salvé. She still had ahankering, then, for all this, and he stood behind her pale withsuppressed feeling, while she continued to gaze at the picture and thinkaloud to him.

"Poor, handsome lad! But he never will surrender—one can easily seethat; and so he must go down," she said, in a subdued voice,involuntarily folding her hands, as if in fancy she went with him; "andhe blows up Belgian and all into the air, Salvé," she said, turning tohim with a fine spirited look in her face, and with moistened eyes.

He made no reply; and supposing that, like herself, he was lost in thescene before them, she turned again to the picture. But while, aftergiving vent to her feelings, she stood there with a smile on her face,thinking that she knew one who would have been quite as capable as VanSpyck of such an exploit—the man, namely, who was then standing behindher—to him the picture had become a hateful thing; and he could haveshot Van Spyck through the heart for his uniform's sake.

The whole of the way home he was silent and serious, and it was notuntil late in the afternoon that he at all recovered his spirits.

As this was to be his last trip for the year, the following spring wasfixed for their marriage; and when he took his leave, it was with thegloomy presentiment that he had a dreary winter before him.

Certainly, for the development of a morbid state of mind, no conditionscould have been more favourable than the enforced inactivity to which,with many another, he was condemned for the long dark months duringwhich the ice put a stop to navigation. To his restless, energeticnature, such prolonged inaction was little suited under anycirc*mstances, and in his present condition of mind it was little lessthan disastrous.

"If she was only here!" he would sometimes inwardly exclaim, as ifcrying out for help against himself and the thoughts which he felt to beunworthy, but which nevertheless he could not shake off.

He often thought of writing to her, but was so afraid of sayingsomething which he might afterwards regret, that he kept putting it offfrom time to time, until at last he could restrain himself no longer.

His letter ran as follows:—

"To much esteemed Miss Elizabeth Raklev—

"As concerning the Apollo, she lies in a row of other ships up in SelvigSound, and the ice is about a foot thick, and will be late in breakingup this year, they all prophesy: she is well looked after, and has awatchman on board, and storage room has been taken for her rigging inPettersen's rigging-loft. But as touching her captain, to whom you saidin Amsterdam you had given your full and first heart so firmly that itcouldn't be moved by any might or power in the world whatsoever—he hasthought much and often about this, and would like to hold out and seeyou again before all his shore cable is chafed away. It seems as if itwas holding by its last threads, and these half-scraped through. But ifI could see you, it would become so strong again that it could holdagainst any stream; and you must forgive me for my weakness when youthink of those five years; but I won't say that it is your fault,neither make myself out better than I am, for I have confidence in you,Elizabeth, if I have not the same reliance upon myself, and I can't helpit if I haven't. When you read this letter, Elizabeth, you must rememberthe poor sailor who is frozen up here, and not forget it afterwards tillwe meet again, which I would give half my life-blood or more for, if itwas any use, as I am consuming away with impatience up here—I have sucha longing to see you again. And now, farewell from my heart, and Godbless you. I will trust you and hope in you till my last hour, come whatmay. Farewell, my dearest girl, with fond love from

"SALVÉ KRISTIANSEN."

This letter cost Elizabeth many a tear. She sat over it in the eveningsbefore she went to bed, and felt so poignantly that it was she who hadbrought him to this—that he could not trust her; for she understood buttoo well what lay between the lines. "If I could only be with him," shethought, and she longed to be able to send him an answer; but she hadnever learnt properly how to write or to compose a letter.

With some difficulty, however, and after several ineffectual attempts,she managed to put two lines together which she remembered from theCatechism:—

"To my lover Salvé Kristiansen—

"You shall put your trust in God, and after Him, in me before allothers, who careth for you in all things, and have faith in me. That isthe truth from your ever-unforgetting "ELIZABETH RAKLEV.And in the spring, "ELIZABETH KRISTIANSEN."

She folded the letter, and got one of Garvloit's sons to write theaddress; but, that it might be certain to go, she went with it herselfto the post-office.

Salvé received it one day with great surprise. He guessed from whom itcame, and delayed opening it in the fear that it might contain abreaking off of their engagement occasioned by his own letter: heremembered that first morning in Amsterdam. What was his joy, then, whenhe found what the contents actually were; he seemed to have the thingnow in black-and-white. He put the letter carefully back into hispocket-book every time after reading it, and for a while was quiteanother man. Still, it was high time that the ice should begin to breakup, and that he should find occupation for his thoughts in work; he hadbegun to be afraid to be alone with them.

His first voyage was to Pürmurende, and thence to Amsterdam; and theydetermined to be married there and then, although he had but four daysto stay while the brig was loading in Pürmurende. Out of considerationfor the Garvloits, whom they wished to spare the expense of the weddingas much as possible, they insisted that they would be married on the daythey were to leave for Pürmurende.

The morning on which the wedding took place, Garvloit's house put forthall its splendour. Dress suits from former days of better circ*mstanceswere brought out from old boxes for the occasion; and Madam Garvloitappeared in a green-silk dress of stiff brocade, with a massive brooch,and a huge gilt comb that shone over her forehead like a piece of acrown. Garvloit, too, did his best; but his utmost endeavour had onlyavailed to adapt one article of his grandfather's state dress to hiscorpulent person—a gold-laced waistcoat namely, which was much too longfor him, and which appeared to occasion him extreme discomfort in theregion of the buttons.

A couple of old friends of the family and the children went with thepair to church, and also the skipper's son from Vlieland, over whoseround soft cheeks there trickled a regretful tear or two as the bride,with her myrtle wreath and long white veil, was led up to the altar byGarvloit. Elizabeth wore that day a pair of particularly handsome shoeswith silver buckles, which Salvé, with glad surprise, recognised as theones he had presented to her many years before.

There was an entertainment provided by Madam Garvloit when they returnedfrom church, which was not a very lively affair, the Garvloits not beingin spirits at the prospect of losing Elizabeth, and she, notwithstandingall her present happiness, being really sorry to go.

A couple of hours after, they were on their way to Pürmurende, and lateron in the mellow evening, were standing together on the deck of theApollo, as she was being towed up the wide canal. The bells were ringingout from Alkmar as they passed—ringing a sweet old chime of other days;and as they stood together by the ship's side, silently listening to thechanging tones from the tower as they mingled in the air above them,they pleased themselves with the thought that it was their weddingchime.

CHAPTER XXI.

In a small house at Tonsberg, at the entrance to the beautifulChristiana fjord, the first summer of their married life passed withouta cloud upon its sky. The house and all about it, with its flowers ineach window, were a model of neatness and Dutch polish; and withElizabeth herself as a centre to it all, it was no wonder that Salvé'screw found him indifferent to all weathers when it was a question ofgetting home.

The charming young skipper's wife, however, during her husband'sfrequent absences, had attracted the notice of some of the leadingfamilies of the town, and had come presently to be if not exactly onintimate terms, at all events on a footing of acquaintanceship with manyof them; and Salvé's enjoyment of his home ceased then to be soperfectly unalloyed.

When Elizabeth recounted to him the flattering proofs of appreciationwhich she received, he listened in silence; and her social successes,instead of giving him pleasure, had a precisely opposite effect. Hewould not for the world have said a word to express his dislike of hermaking such acquaintances; and he even, when they went to churchtogether on Sundays, liked her to be as well-dressed as any of thesefine friends who now seemed to share his wife with him. But if he saidnothing, and was even angry with himself for thinking about the subject,still he did think about it, and with increasing irritation. He couldnot get the idea out of his head that Elizabeth must now be alwayscontrasting him unfavourably with these people; and as he paced the deckof his brig alone out at sea, he would picture them to himself asconstantly in his house, and always talking on the subject which hecould least endure—the sacrifice which Elizabeth must have made tobecome his wife.

When their son Gjert was born in the spring following their marriage, hehad been sitting by Elizabeth's bedside unable to tear himself away fromher and the cradle, until a small present arrived from one of herfriends in the town, who with others had often sent to inquire afterher, when he got up and went straight out of the house and pacedbackwards and forwards with his hands behind his back outside, as shecould see through the window, thoroughly out of humour, though when hecame in again he was even more affectionate and attentive to her thanbefore.

As she never for a moment imagined that he could think her deep love forhim could be in any way affected by the slight surface interest whichher new acquaintances afforded her, she looked upon his jealousy ofthem, of which she had had indications often enough before, as aweakness merely to which he ought to have been superior; and as he saidnothing himself on the subject, she also let it pass without comment onher side, but determined at the same time that she would see less ofthem in future, at all events while he was at home.

It happened however, unluckily, some weeks afterwards, that she had justbeen talking to some of them when he returned from an expedition toNotterö to hire a crew for his next voyage to Amsterdam, on which shewas to accompany him. "Herr Jurgensen and his wife," she said, "had justpassed, and she had been talking to them; they were to start forFrederiksvoern on the following day."

"And fancy!" she went on with animation, "Fru Jurgensen knows Marie
Forstberg. So I asked her to remember me to her."

"Marie Forstberg?—who is she?" asked Salvé.

"She who was so kind to me,"—she stopped here, and the colour came andwent in her face as she continued—"it was she who married—Beck'sson—the lieutenant."

"You ought to have asked Fru Jurgensen to remember me to Beck then atthe same time," he said, cuttingly, and went past her into the housewithout looking her in the face.

Elizabeth followed him, feeling very uncomfortable, and after standingfor a moment in indecision, went over to him, and sitting down on hisknee, put her arm round his neck, saying—

"You are not angry with me, are you? I didn't think you would mind, or Iwouldn't have done it."

"Oh! it's quite immaterial to me, of course, who you send your love to."

"She was my best friend when I was—in Arendal," Elizabeth said,avoiding the mention of Beck's name again.

"I don't doubt you are on the best possible terms with all thesepeople," Salvé said, impatiently, and making a movement as if he wouldget up from his seat.

It was Elizabeth who rose first.

"Salvé!" she exclaimed, and was about to add more, when he pulled herdown to him again, and said in a gentle tone of remorse—

"Forgive me, Elizabeth. I didn't mean what I said. But I do so hatehearing you talk of these people."

Elizabeth burst into tears, protesting against his want of confidence inher; and Salvé, now thoroughly distressed at the result of his want ofself-control, overwhelmed her with tenderness in his endeavours toappease her. He succeeded after a while, and the evening was passed insuch sunshine as only succeeds to storm.

After a quarrel of the kind, however, there must be always somethingleft behind, and though Salvé was doubly affectionate for many days,afterwards he grew more and more silent, and presently even irritableand moody, and would not go to church on any of the succeeding Sundayswhile he remained at home.

CHAPTER XXII.

Elizabeth carried out her intention of accompanying him to Amsterdam,where she paid a visit of several days to the Garvloits, and thepleasure of the trip was only alloyed for her by the change which hadcome over Salvé's manner, and to which she had now to try and accustomherself as one does to a less brilliant light after having seen the sun.

They were on their way home again, sailing before a light breeze, andunder a soft blue sky, out of the busy, shallow Zuyder Zee. Elizabethwas sitting on deck with little Gjert, blooming as a rose, and askinganimated questions of the pilot, whom they had been compelled to take onboard, about the various flat sandy islands and towns which came insight from time to time, Salvé occasionally stopping in his walk tolisten.

By Terschelling the channel from the Zuyder Zee to the North Sea ismarked out like a narrow strait with black and red buoys; and even inthat calm weather there were foaming breakers the whole way close to theship on either side. "What must it be like," Elizabeth asked, in a sortof terror, "in a storm, when the whole sea was driving in?"

"That is a sight it's better not to see," replied the pilot.

"But you have to be out, storm or not, pilot?"

"It is my way of getting a living," he answered, shortly.

Salvé stood and listened, as the conversation took this turn.

"We have pilots in Norway, too," she said, "who don't mind a wet jacketeither. It is a fine life!"

The Dutchman merely observed, coldly, in reply—

"In two successive years—it is three years ago now—they lost out hereoff Amland a total of fifty pilots."

"Still, it is a fine life!" she said; and Salvé resumed his walk.

A couple of evenings after, the Apollo was pitching out on theDoggerbank in the moonlight, with a reef in her topsails. Elizabeth hadnot yet gone below, and was sitting with her child warmly wrapped up onher lap, while Salvé paced the deck and looked at her from time to time.A little farther off, near the main-hatch, Nils Buvaagen (whom Salvé hadmet again at Notterö, and persuaded to take service with him) and acouple of the crew who were off duty were engaged in story-telling, theothers lounging about near them to listen. Elizabeth, too, waslistening.

They had crossed that day a long stretch of dead water, and thecarpenter had several mysterious incidents, of which he declared he hadbeen an eyewitness, to recount on the head of it. Meeting dead waterlike that out in the open sea generally meant that something was goingto happen.

Nils Buvaagen, like all fjord peasants, had a strong leaning towardsevery kind of superstition; and in his many voyages across the NorthSea, he had had more than one experience of the kind in question. He hadsat quite silent so far.

"H'm!" he remarked now, thoughtfully taking a pull at his pipe. "I darebe sworn there's many a one out here on the Dogger. Where we are now, Itell you, is as it might be an old burial-ground."

With that he retired into himself, and began to pull away vigorously athis pipe, as if he had unintentionally said more than he exactly liked.But being pressed to go on, he was obliged to satisfy the curiosity hehad excited, and resumed accordingly in a hushed tone, after cautiouslylooking round first.

"Do you know," he asked, mysteriously, "how all the old fish come bytheir deaths?"

None of his audience were able to give an answer to this unexpectedquestion.

"You don't?" he continued; "nor no one else neither. But all the same,such myriads die every day that, if all was right, the whole surface ofthe sea would be covered with their white bellies—we should be sailingall day long through dead fish. It is a 'mystery,' the same as it iswhat becomes of all the old ships in the world." Coming from him, thatword "mystery" had something very weird and uncanny about it.

"Yes, the Dogger can be ugly enough, and may be so perhaps before we areclear of it," he concluded, and leant back against the spar behind himto look up at the clouds. Some scud was driving at the moment across thefull moon.

"But about the old fish and the old vessels, Nils?" said the carpenter,recalling him to the subject.

"Yes, it is here, to the Dogger Bank, that they resort for the mostpart, and to one or two other places perhaps in the world besides. Thatis the reason that there is always a sort of corpse sand in the waterhere, and so many noises and things that one can't explain."

There was a general start as he said this, and they looked at oneanother in silence; for it seemed as if the vessel had suddenly stoppedwith a shock in the middle of her course, and the spray from a heavy seacame pouring down over the deck.

"She heard it," said the carpenter, involuntarily; "she is an old craft,and doesn't like going over the churchyard."

Elizabeth thought that last proposition sounded so uncomfortable thatshe got up and went below to bed.

The sea ran high in the night, and the vessel kept pitching with dullthuds as if they were in very shoal water, which, however, the leadshowed not to be the case. In the morning the chain-cable of the anchorwas found tossed by the force of the sand-laden seas right over thedeck, and arranged there with a certain regularity. To many of the crewit seemed clear that other than natural causes must have been at work;there were evidently "dead hands" upon the bank, and this was a warning.Nils shook his head and said nothing.

All the morning they were enveloped in a thick sea fog that surroundedthem like a wall; but towards noon the sun began to appear like a sicklygleam above them, and by dinner-time they were sailing under a clearsky, and in a fresh green breezy sea, with sails on every side.

It was an exhilarating sight, and reminded Elizabeth of the days of herchildhood. She called Salvé over to share her enjoyment of it.

Of all the vessels in sight, the handsomest, without comparison, was theNorth Star, a Norwegian corvette, well known along the coast of Norway,and which had often aroused Elizabeth's enthusiasm in earlier days. Shewas crossing their course, and standing under full sail for the Channel.Elizabeth recognised her at once, and exclaimed decisively—

"That is the North Star—isn't she a magnificent ship, Salvé! See, theyare taking in the topsails; they look like a flock of birds up there onthe yard among those beautiful big sails. Did you ever see anything sogrand as her shape? and how majestically she ploughs through the sea!When she has all her canvas spread like that, I could fancy Tordenskjoldhimself on board of her in full chase."

Salvé looked straight before him and didn't answer. He knew, whatElizabeth had not the faintest suspicion of, that Lieutenant Beck was onboard the North Star, as third in command for that year's cruise in theMediterranean, whither she was now bound; and a host of unpleasantassociations were raised by Elizabeth's innocent admiration of her.

"It was the North Star," she continued, "that beat through the straitsof Gibraltar against the current when none of the others could." TheNorth Star had long ago taken the place of the Naiad as her heroineship, and she related the performance with a certain pride.

"How would you like to be in command of a ship like that, Salvé?" sheasked, determined to wake him up and get an answer.

"It would be a very different thing from having such an old tub as theApollo under one—there's no disputing that," he replied bitterly; andquitted her side abruptly, as if to give orders to the crew.

Elizabeth remained standing where she was, utterly puzzled. What couldthere possibly have been in what she had said to offend him? andoffended he certainly was by the tone of voice in which he was givinghis orders, and the expression of his face as he stood there by thewheel with his hand in the breast of his pea-jacket—she felt certain itwas clenched there. It was really too unreasonable—the idea of hisbeing jealous of a ship! This uncertainty about every word she spoke nowwas getting absolutely insupportable, and with a toss of her head shedetermined that she would stand it no longer, but would speak her mindto him once for all, whether it should lead to a scene or not.

No opportunity, however, for carrying out her intention occurred duringthe remainder of the afternoon. There appeared to be bad weather comingup, and many of the sails had to be taken in; and afterwards he paced upand down by the round-house forward for a couple of hours, purposely, asshe could see, avoiding her. The crew apparently had an impression, too,that it was as well to keep out of his way, as they left him that sideof the deck to himself, and stood talking in knots about the capstan,with their oilskin coats and sou'westers on, in anticipation of dirtyweather, and casting anxious glances from time to time at the banks ofcloud that were rolling up darkly from the horizon to leeward, andsending already a whine through the old rigging above them. They waitedimpatiently for the word to take in more sail, as it was obvious thatthey must go with storm sails only for the night.

It was only at the last moment apparently that Salvé made up his mind,for when he suddenly shouted over to them to take in topsails and put acouple of reefs in the mainsail, the storm was already upon them. Hesprang aft at the same time and seized the trumpet, saying shortly andharshly to Elizabeth as he passed her hurriedly, and almost withoutlooking at her—

"This is not weather for sitting up on deck, Elizabeth. You had bettertake the child below and lie down."

Elizabeth saw that he was right, and went; but there was a look ofpained surprise in her face as she lingered for a moment and lookedafter him. He had never spoken to her like that before.

The crew had supposed that he would of course keep away and run beforethe gale, and not strain the old brig by beating to windward in such anight as they saw before them; and it was under mute protest, therefore,that they proceeded to carry out his orders to clap on preventer braceson the rags of sail which they were carrying. The old blocks creaked andscreamed in the increasing darkness above the rattle of the hailsqualls, and the vessel careened over and went plunging into the headseas with successive shocks that seemed likely very soon to shake her topieces.

Nils Buvaagen was standing in moody silence, with another, at the wheel,and he could see by the light from the binnacle, which occasionally fellupon Salvé's face as he walked up and down near them to leeward, that hewas ashy pale. He would have liked to say something, but it didn't seemadvisable.

"Topsail's flapping!" came from forward, "she'll be taken aback!"

"She's an old craft, captain—her topmasts'll not bear a great deal,"
Nils ventured to observe.

"I'll show you that I can make the old tub go," muttered Salvé betweenhis teeth, affecting not to have heard what was said.

"Keep her away, Nils—she must have more way—and so over on a newtack," was his reply in a peremptory tone.

"Stand by to 'bout ship!"

Nils sighed: such sailing was quite indefensible; and there was not oneof the crew who had not the same feeling.

Through the darkness and the blinding dash of the seas came then atintervals—

"Haul in the boom—hard a-lee—brace forward—brace aft!" and here therewas a longer interval, for one of the ropes on the foremast hadapparently got foul, and there was a difficulty in bracing the yard, thesail flapping with a dull noise above and making the whole mast tremble.One of the crew had to mount the old rigging at the risk of his life,and feel over the unsteady yard in the dark for the rope and disentangleit, with the white tops of the seas breaking not far under his feet.

"Sharp up aft—sharp forward!" came then again. "Haul the jib-sheet!"but no sooner was the jib hauled taut and made fast, than it broke looseand hung fluttering wildly about the stay until it gradually twisteditself up into a tangle.

The sails filled on the new tack; but they were not much better off thanbefore, the sea breaking over them with such violence that the deck,from amidships forward, was only passable with the greatest difficultyand danger. The crew began to think the captain must have taken leave ofhis senses; and, in fact, Salvé was not himself that night. He wassailing in this reckless way in a mere fit of temper intensified by theconsciousness of his own unreasonableness. Elizabeth made a mistake, hetold himself by way of justification, if she thought that he on boardhis poor brig gave in to any officer in the navy, let him be who hemight. She should see that he, too, was a man who could beat—herequired no North Star under him, he would perform the same feat in aleaky old barge.

A couple of times when the cook, who looked after Elizabeth's wants,came up the cabin stairs, Salvé inquired how she was getting on, andheard each time that she was sitting up not yet undressed. The last timethe good-natured cook had added—

"She wants badly to see you, captain—she isn't accustomed to this sortof thing."

He made no reply further than a scornful contraction of his featureswhich was not visible to the other, and resumed his staggering walk toleeward, between the companion and the wheel.

Elizabeth meanwhile had been sitting a prey to most distracted thoughts.When she went below with her child, she had a dull feeling at her heartthat some great sorrow had come or was coming over her, and she had satfor some time almost without the power to think. He had never treatedher like that before.

She set about putting the child to bed then in her usual way, as if shehad been a mere machine. For him the rolling berth was only a rockingcradle, and he was soon sleeping quietly without an idea of danger. Shestood with her arm leaning over the edge of the berth, supporting him,and gazing on his dimpled face; the lamp that swung to and fro under thebeam, shedding a dim light over the narrow cabin, with its small table,and pegs full of seamen's clothes, moving solemnly backwards andforwards on the wall. Between the creaking of the ship's timbers and thenoise of ropes being dragged across the deck, Salvé's voice could beheard in harsh tones of command, and every now and then there would be asudden concussion that would make the whole vessel shake, and the floorwould seem to go from under her feet, so that she had to hold on by therail of the berth, and keep the child from falling out as best she couldat the same time. Whenever they had had such weather before, Salvé hadalways come down from time to time to see her. Now—she didn't know whatto think. From what the cook had told her, she gathered that they werebeating with unjustifiable recklessness, and from the tone of Salvé'svoice she knew that he was in a savagely defiant mood, and that she, forsome reason or other, was the cause of it. Her expression graduallychanged to one of deeper and deeper anxiety of soul.

"But what have I done to him?" she exclaimed impetuously, and buried herface in the bedclothes.

"What have I done to him?" she repeated. "What can he believe?—what canhe possibly think?" she asked herself, as she stood now like a statuealmost, lost in conjecture, until the thought which she had always triedto keep away came up before her in full, heavy, unmistakable clearness.

"He doesn't trust me!" she whispered to herself, in despair. "He has nofaith in me;" and she laid her head—her beautiful head—down upon herarm, just as her own child might have done, in an inconsolable fit ofcrying. But to her no tears would come, and she seemed to see an abyssof suspicion and distrust before her in which Salvé's love for her wasgoing to disappear.

She heard no longer the creaking and the noise on deck—no longer caredabout the lurching and the thuds against the head-seas—although she hadoften to hold on to the berth with all her strength. All the energy ofher soul was now occupied with this one awful terror which had takenpossession of her. All her defiance was gone. Her only source of couragenow was to do anything or everything to keep his love. She felt readyfor any sacrifice whatever—ready, without a sigh, to bear the burden ofhis suspicions all her life through if she might only keep his love. Itwas she who had made him distrustful, and it was upon her the punishmentshould fall, if she could not by persistent love bring him back to ahealthy condition of mind again.

Her instinct at once suggested to her how she should begin. He shouldsee that she on her side had entire confidence in him—confidence asabsolute as the child's there who was sleeping before her. And with asickly smile upon her lips, she undressed and laid herself down besidelittle Gjert.

Upon deck Salvé had wanted the night-glass, which was down in the cabin.The look-out man had fancied that he had caught a glimpse for a momentof a light, in which case, against Salvé's calculations, they must beunder Jutland. His pride, however, would not allow him to send any oneelse to fetch the glass, and he couldn't make up his mind to go downhimself. At last it became absolutely necessary, and he went hurriedlydown the stair.

When he opened the cabin door he stood still for a moment in surprise,and looked about him. He had expected to find Elizabeth sitting up, withthe child on her lap, and looking frightened. In place of that all wasquiet, and the lamp was nearly out. He strode on and took the glass fromthe wall; and after a couple of attempts, managed to light a match, inspite of the damp, and held it to the barometer. He remained thenstanding with it in his hand, and listened to hear whether she wasasleep or not. Involuntarily he approached the berth, and looked intoit.

"Elizabeth," he whispered, softly, as if he was afraid of waking her.

"Is that you, Salvé?" was the reply, in a perfectly calm voice.

"I thought you would be sitting up with the boy in this gale. She rollsso; and I—I haven't been down to see you," he said.

"I knew I had you on deck, Salvé," she replied. "The rest we must onlyleave to God. You have not had time to come down, poor fellow," sheadded, "you have been so busy."

"Elizabeth!" he exclaimed, with a sudden pang of passionate remorse, andreached over impetuously into the berth to embrace her with his wetclothes.

At that moment a crash was heard, accompanied by a violent trembling ofthe ship, and loud cries on deck. Something had evidently given way.

With the same movement with which he had intended to embrace her, helifted her quickly out of the berth, and told her to dress herself andthe child, and come up to the top of the cabin stairs. The words werehardly out of his mouth when the vessel heeled over, and didn't rightherself again.

"Fore-topmast gone, captain; rigging hanging!" bawled Nils Buvaagen downthe stair.

Salvé turned to her for a moment with a face full of mute, crushingself-reproach, and sprang up on deck.

"Keep her away, if she'll answer her helm!" he shouted to the man at thewheel. "To the axes, men!"

The brig lay over on one side, with her brittle rigging at the mercy ofthe wind and sea, the waves making a clean breach over her. Salvéhimself went up and cut away the topmast, which went over the side toleeward; and as the first grey light of dawn appeared, and made thefigures of the crew dimly distinguishable, the axes were still beingfeverishly plied in strong hands among the stays, backstays, and topmastrigging. While the work was going on the fearful rolling caused firstthe main-topgallant sail to go, and then the topsail, with the yards andall belonging to it. The forestay snapped, the mainsail split, and thelower yards and foremast were damaged. And when at last, after desperateefforts, they had succeeded in freeing the ship from the encumbrance ofthe fallen rigging, she lay there more than half a wreck, and scarcelycapable of doing more than run before the wind.

They had only the boom-mainsail now, and the forecourse, left; and withthese Salvé kept her away—it was the only thing now to be done—untilthe growing light should show them whether they had sea-room, or thedreaded Jutland coast before them. The last, with this westerly galeblowing, would mean pretty nearly for a certainty stranding upon thesandbanks and the vessel becoming a wreck.

When it was clear day, they made out Horn's Reef far down to thesouth-east; they lay about off Ringkjobing's Fjord, and would requirenow to do their utmost to clear the coast. With some difficulty theysucceeded in rigging up a jury-mast, and managed by that means to keepup a little closer in the wind. But their only chance was that the windmight go down, or shift a little to the southward, or in the current,which generally takes a northerly direction here, unless it should setthem in too much under land.

Salvé paced restlessly up and down his dismantled deck, where a greatpart of the bulwarks and the round-house forward were stove in, whilstthe crew relieved each other two and two at the pumps. They hadevidently sprung a serious leak, which was the more cause for anxietythat they were returning in ballast, and had no timber cargo to keepthem afloat. He had confided their situation to Elizabeth.

"I am afraid we may be obliged to beach her at some convenient spot," hesaid, adding, with a slight quiver in his voice, "we shall lose thebrig."

He laid emphasis upon this, because he didn't wish to tell her theworst—namely, that this convenient spot was not to be found upon thewhole coast, and that their lives were unmistakably in danger.

Whatever happened, it seemed sufficient for Elizabeth that he was nearher, and there was a look of quiet trust in her face as she turnedtowards him that went to his heart; he could not bear it, and turnedaway.

The brig and its possible loss did not occupy much of Elizabeth'sthoughts. In the midst of their danger she was absolutely glad at heartat the thought that by her display of implicit confidence she hadsucceeded in winning a great victory with Salvé. After what she had gonethrough that night, this was everything to her.

There was a fine energetic look of determination in her face, and hereyes were moist with tears as she bent over the child in her lap andwhispered—

"If he cannot trust us, we two must teach him—mustn't we, Gjert?"

CHAPTER XXIII.

Towards dinner-time Salvé and Nils Buvaagen were standing for a momenttogether by the ship's side.

The storm had perceptibly lulled, but the weather was still dull andhazy, and the sea high. Two or three sea-gulls were circling drearilybetween them and the coast, where they could now see a long line ofyellow foaming breakers like a huge wall, rising and falling on thesandbanks, with here and there a mast-high jet of spray from some reefoutside. Although the wind was on shore they could hear the dull thunderof the breakers there, and a kind of dim rumbling in the air. The nextthree or four hours would obviously decide their fate.

Neither spoke; each was occupied with his own reflections. Nils wasthinking of his wife and children at home, and Salvé of his future. Itwas hard to lose the brig; he had worked hard for the money sherepresented, and he would have now to begin again on the lowest step ofthe ladder—if he escaped with his life, that was to say.

Less selfish thoughts succeeded then, and he turned to Nils.

"What I feel most in this business, Nils," he said, earnestly, "is thethought that you or any of the others may perhaps pay the penalty for mymad sailing last night, with your lives. The brig is my own affair."

"Oh, it will be all right, captain, you'll see," replied Nils,cheeringly. "If we can hang on to the old craft while she bumps over thebanks, we shall manage somehow or other inside I expect."

"God grant it!" said Salvé, and turned away.

Nils remained standing where he was for a moment, and something like aspasm passed across his heavy features. He believed their situation tobe desperate, and the vision of his home again rose before him, andalmost choked him.

"Relieve the pumps!" was heard. It was his turn again, and he gavehimself unweariedly to the work.

Salvé seemed like one conscience-smitten. His face wore an expression ofstrained uneasiness, and his look more and more, as the moments passed,betokened the consciousness that a struggle for life was before them.Through the glass a knot of people could be seen gathering on the downswhich ran along the coast, with their jagged formations showing out intones of dim violet and blue.

He stood now in the companion with his wife and his child, and sighedheavily as he looked at them.

"I would gladly give the brig, and be reduced to my own two hands oncemore, to have last night over again, Elizabeth!" he said.

She pressed his hand with an expression of sympathy, which answered himbetter than words; and the next moment he was again the practical man,showing her how she might tie the child to her breast with ahandkerchief.

"I can't stay with you any longer now," he said. "I am responsible forthe lives of all on board, and must do my duty by them."

"Do your duty, Salvé," she said.

"And so," he concluded, as, trying to conceal his emotion, he strokedher forehead and then the child's, "you must keep a good heart. When thepinch comes I shall be at your side, and we shall win through it, you'llsee."

"With God's gracious help!" she answered; "remember that, Salvé."

He strode away then down the deck and called the crew aft to takecounsel with him on the situation. The vessel was rapidly becomingwater-logged.

"Listen, my lads!" he said; "this is a serious business, as you can allvery clearly see. But if we only have stout hearts we may get out of ityet, at all events with our lives. We have about three hours stillbefore we run upon the sandbanks; but by that time it will have begun toget dark, and it may be difficult for the people on shore to come to ourrescue. We must steer straight in and choose the likeliest placeourselves; and if you are of the same way of thinking we'll head for theshore now at once, rather than wait to have the old craft flung over thebanks in the dark like a dead fish."

The crew were silent, and looked anxiously over towards the land. Butwhen Nils Buvaagen declared himself a supporter of the captain's plan bycrossing over the deck to him, all the others followed.

Salvé went himself to the wheel, and gave the order to "Ease off thesheet."

"Ease it is," was the answer; and that was the last order ever given onboard the Apollo.

Running now before the wind, they rapidly approached the land. Salvéstood at the wheel, resting his knee from time to time on one of thespokes, with a concentrated look on his dark keen face, and his eyesearching like a kite's along the coast for the place they were to makefor. A couple of times he took up the glass and directed it towards thedowns, where a group of people were moving about.

The chalk-white wall of water, rising and falling, grew higher andhigher as they approached it; the noise and the dull roar of thebreakers became more and more deafening, and a feeling of faintnesscrept over Elizabeth as she looked towards the land, and began torealise their danger.

The suspense was so painfully prolonged, a mist was coming before hereyes, so that she could scarcely see Salvé over at the wheel; and shetried, in her terror, to keep them fixed upon the child in her arms. Theseething, hissing sound in the air around her kept increasing, and madeher giddy; a confusion of wild sounds, that grew louder and ever louder,seemed to fill her brain; and before her eyes there was nothing but awhirl of scudding flakes of white. A mass of sand-laden foaming waterappeared then suddenly to rise before her with a towering crest; sheheard one loud cry of terror from different voices; the brig seemedlifted high in the air; the mainmast tottered; and a suffocating delugeof water came crashing down upon her, nearly carrying her with it downthe cabin stairs, where she was clinging. Again and again it came, andher one thought now was to hold fast.

When she returned to consciousness again, Salvé was by her side. Theywere fastened to the same rope, and all the crew had come aft, andlashed themselves there. The brig lay over on her side upon the innerbank, with her stern up, and with the mainmast lying over the side. Shekept lifting and striking heavily against the bottom, while heavy seas,one after another, swept her forward.

"The rigging to leeward must be cleared away, and we shall get off,lads!" shouted Salvé, through his hollowed hand; and he sprang over withan axe to do it. Nils Buvaagen came to his assistance, and Elizabeth, inintense anxiety, watched the two men while they cut away rope afterrope, holding on by the rigging all the time, the sea breaking overthem, so that sometimes they were hardly visible through the drench ofwater. After one last stroke, which freed them from the mast, Salvé wasby her side again.

The next moment they were carried over the bank by the yellow churningsurge, and with a succession of jerks and bumps, over to the shoalinside, where the bow-timbers were stove in—"the best thing that couldhave happened to them," Salvé said, coolly, "as it would relieve thevessel of the weight of water in the hold, and they might now be washedup nearer to the beach."

At length, after a couple of long and terrible hours, as twilight wascoming on, and the face of the downs was becoming darker in the gloomyatmosphere, it seemed as if the vessel had finally settled. The wavesnow broke less frequently over her, but left a heavy deposit of sandupon the deck when they did break. It seemed likely that she would go topieces, plank by plank, if they remained as they were through the night,or else perhaps they would be buried in sand.

On one side of the shoal—on the side where they saw people upon thebeach—ran a channel with a strong current; and they, perceived thatthey had been fortunate to some extent in not having been washed rightover into it, as in that case the brig must inevitably have sunk: on theother side there was navigable water, though with breakers here andthere. Their signals, they knew, had been seen by the people on shore;but, to their despair, they saw them all at once disappear.

Salvé, upon that, set to work to lash some planks together for a raft;and the crew followed his example with whatever they could lay theirhands upon that would float. His idea was, to try and get Elizabeth andthe child to land by tying them securely to the raft, and trust to hisown swimming powers and address to reach the shore with the line he wasattaching to it; and the only question then would be, whether he wouldbe able to haul it to land against the strong back-suck of the recedingwaves, that left every time a long stretch of dry sand behind them.Elizabeth was sitting meanwhile on the cabin-stairs, scarcely in acondition to comprehend what was passing.

As Salvé was occupied with this work, he suddenly heard a shout of joyround him. From behind a projection in the downs a group of men hadappeared, carrying a large boat. They stopped at a corner of the beach.A number of them took their seats in the boat; and as a wave was curlingover to break, the others ran her down, and the back flow carried herout to sea, the men setting to work at once with all their might at theoars.

The plucky fellows evidently knew the water thereabouts; for theysteered in a wide circle up behind a line of shoals, that acted like amole in breaking the force of the waves, and bore down then obliquelyupon the wreck, to leeward of which the water was comparatively smooth.

"Now then, look alive, my hearties!" they shouted, as they hooked on;and the admonition was scarcely needed.

Salvé carried his almost unconscious wife down to the side, where theytook her and laid her aft in the bottom of the boat; but she sat up withoutstretched arms until her child had been passed to her from hand tohand, and was safe in them again, and then she watched anxiously forSalvé to come too. He sprang down into the boat the last, and then shefainted.

They put off, and stood in now on the crests of the waves straight forthe beach, where a score of men in sea-boots and woollen jackets made achain down into the water by holding each other's hands, and drew theboat ashore.

They heard congratulations all round; and the man who had held thetiller exclaimed, as Salvé silently grasped his hand—

"It was resolutely done, Northman, to steer like that—only that youdid, you'd have passed the night upon the bank."

The invitation of their rescuers to partake of such hospitality as theycould offer was gladly accepted by the famished party from the wreck;and they followed the steersman, Ib Mathisen, and his comrades in amongthe downs, where the wind was no longer felt. It was some miles to thefishing village; and they trudged on after it grew dark in silence,being too exhausted, and too dejected, to talk, their guides onlykeeping up a low conversation among themselves. Salvé carried the child,sheltering it from the pricking sand that blew in their faces when theycame out upon the flat downs farther on, and supporting Elizabeth at thesame time.

At last they saw the lights of a group of cottages. The largest of thesebelonged to Ib Mathisen; and into this Salvé and his wife wereconducted, while the crew were distributed among the others.

Ib's wife, a robust-looking woman of fifty or thereabouts, with a bold,straightforward expression in her tanned countenance, was standing overby the fire with her sleeves tucked up baking, when they came in. Sheexamined the incomers steadily for a moment without raising herself fromher stooping position; but at the sight of Elizabeth and the child sheexclaimed in a tone of compassion that was better than any more formalwelcome, "The poor woman and her child have been cast ashore, Ib?" andset about caring for their wants at once, her grown-up daughter helpingher to draw a bench to the fire for them, and putting a kettle on tomake something warm for them to drink. This was evidently not her firstexperience of the kind; and before long they had all put on dry clothes,and Elizabeth and the child were in a warm bed. As she went about sheput questions in a low voice to her husband; and Salvé, who was sittingwith his cheek in his hand staring into the fire, heard her say—

"Perhaps he was the owner of the vessel himself?"

"Yes, she was all the property we possessed," Salvé answered, quietly."But we are none the less grateful to your husband for rescuing us, andwe have unfortunately very little to thank him with for venturing hislife out on the banks in such weather."

"So you've been at that game again, Ib," said the wife, turning to herhusband reproachfully, but not seeming altogether sincere in herreproach.

Turning to Salvé then she said a little curtly, "For the like of that wetake no payment," adding in a milder tone, "We have two sons ourselveswho ply to Norway—there's a bad coast there too."

Salvé was pale and worn out with over-exertion, and after taking amouthful of food he lay down to rest. But he could not sleep, andtowards morning he was lying awake listening to the dull booming of thedistant sea. Elizabeth was tossing about feverishly and talking in hersleep. Her brain was evidently busy with the terrors of the previousnight, and from occasional words it seemed as if he had a share in herthoughts. He lay and listened, though there was not much to be made outof her disjointed utterances. She grew more restless, and began to talkmore excitedly—

"Never! never!" she said, vehemently; "he shall never hear a word aboutthe brig," and she went on then in a confidential whisper—

"Shall he, Gjert? He shall find us in our berth, or else he will thinkwe are afraid."

Salvé kissed her forehead tenderly, but with a sigh. There had been amotive then, after all, at the bottom of that display of confidencewhich had occasioned him such pangs of self-reproach.

A couple of hours after he was on the way down to the sea to look at thebrig. The general aspect of the world about him was in harmony with hismood. The wind whistled over the dreary sand-hills, whirling the sand inclouds in among the downs that stretched away like a storm-tossed seainto the distance, in every variety of desolate and jagged outline. Uponthe melancholy shore a sea-gull or two were circling round some oldblack stumps of wreck that protruded from the sand; while beyond lay thedismal expanse of the western sea, without a sail upon its leaden wasteof waters, so shunned by all. Dreariness, wreck, and desolation were onevery side; and it seemed to Salvé that it was only a reflection of hisown life. He had got to be the owner of a brig, and there it lay, whatremained of it, buried in the sand. He had succeeded in making Elizabethhis own, but had he thereby added anything to the happiness of his life?

He stood gazing at the remains of his brig, over which the yellow waveswere breaking, in a state of gloomy abstraction, from which he was onlyaroused by the approach of Ib Mathisen and a party of his own crew, whohad followed him to the shore to see if possibly they might retrievesome of their property. He joined them in the search, and with but smallresult; three ship chests and the compass being all the reward of anhour's labour among the timber-ends and bolts and pieces of rigging thatstrewed the beach, or made ripples in the sand for a long distance ineither direction.

They remained that day in the fishing hamlet; and when Salvé had madehis declaration before the authorities, and had paid the crew what heowed them with the greater part of the money he had saved, he andElizabeth took passage for Christiansand in a corn ship from Harboere.

He was very silent on the way, thinking about his future; and theprospect was not a bright one: he knew that there prevailed but oneopinion among the crew about the loss of the brig, that he had his ownfolly only to thank for it; and as this, of course, would get about, hischance of being employed as a skipper by any shipowner would be verysmall. Elizabeth's popularity in Tonsberg might probably be of serviceto him, but he would sooner starve than help himself to a situation bymeans of it; and in her present circ*mstances she should not even returnto Tonsberg.

One only course remained open to him if he was not to begin again fromthe very beginning—he would become an uncertificated pilot for theArendal district. No one knew the coast there better than he did; he hadalways had the idea in his mind, ever since the night when he broughtthe Juno into Merdö; and out there, or in some other spot along thecoast, he reflected gloomily that he could have Elizabeth all tohimself.

When he announced his decision to Elizabeth, she entered with animationinto the project; and when he went on to add, that she would have to becontent now with being only a common man's wife, she replied,intrepidly—

"If he is only called Salvé Kristiansen, I require nothing more."

CHAPTER XXIV.

It was so arranged then; and though Elizabeth was rather disappointed tohear that she was not to see her tidy house at Tonsberg again, sheallowed no indication of the feeling to escape her, and Salvé went byhimself to arrange their affairs there.

When he had sold what property they had, and bought his pilot-boat, theyhad still a small sum left with which to begin housekeeping afresh, andMerdö was chosen for their future residence.

From the outside this island looks only like one of the desolate serieswhich form the outworks of the coast for miles here in either direction,with many a spot of angry white marking the sunken rocks between. Butthe inner side forms the well-known Merdö harbour of refuge, with itslittle hamlet of fishermen's and pilots' houses on the strand; and itwas in one of these, a little red painted house with a small porch infront and a flagged yard and garden behind, and which presently becametheir own, that they eventually settled.

The coast outside Merdö is exceptionally dangerous, but the Merdö pilotshave also the reputation of being exceptionally brave and skilful. Theyare also perhaps the widest known. For having no defined district theytake a wide range, and may to-day be lying off Lindesnaes, to-morrowunder the Skaw or the Holmen, and the day after board a ship fromHamburg right away down at Horn's Reef. It is a common thing to meet oneof them with his Arendal mark, his red stripe and number on themainsail, trawling for mackerel far out over the North Sea, and evendown as far as the Dogger Bank, where they get information from foreignfishing smacks of vessels from the Channel or from English or Dutchports. If a skipper wants news from the North Sea or Skager Rack, hegenerally keeps a look-out for one of these pilot-boats, and finds aliving shipping list, and the newest too, on board, which costs him, atthe most, supposing he has nothing of interest to impart in return, aroll of tobacco, a bottle of spirits, or a strand of rope. But it is tothe captain who, on some pitch-dark winter night, when the sea isrunning mountains high, has come in beneath bare poles under theTorungens, and who knows that he is doomed if he cannot get a pilot,that these Merdö men are most familiar. When, perhaps, he has given upall hope, he suddenly hears himself hailed from the darkness; a line isthrown; and a dripping pilot stands upon the deck. When the sea is toorough to board a vessel in any other way, they do not think twice abouttaking a line round their waist and jumping overboard; and when it is apoint of honour with them to bring in a ship, boat and home and lifeweigh but very little in the opposite scale.

The black-bearded Salvé Kristiansen soon came to be the best known inArendal of them all. The dauntless look in his keen brown eyes, hissharp features, and his short, sudden manner and way of speaking, gavethe impression of a character of uncommon energy; and it was said thatnot the very wildest weather would deter him from going to sea. He wasknown to have more than once stayed alone on board a water-logged vesselwhile he sent his comrade on shore for help; and in his little room athome, with its white-painted windows, and geraniums, and Dutchcuckoo-clock, there stood above the roll of charts and telescope on thewall a bracket with more than one silver goblet upon it, which, like thetelescope, were presents in acknowledgment of his services in pilotingvessels into port under circ*mstances of unusual difficulty and danger.But, notwithstanding the repute in which he was held, he had never yetreceived the medal for saving life, nor had he yet been made acertificated pilot of the district.

He was not a man who gathered comrades round him; and as the yearspassed, his unapproachability of demeanour, which seemed intended toconvey to people with a certain bitterness that he could do very wellwithout them, increased. It was said up in the town that he had taken todrink. For after selling off his mackerel down on the quay, he wouldoften now sit the whole day in Mother Andersen's parlour with hisbrandy-glass before him; and when evening approached, and his head hadhad as much as it could carry, it was just as well to keep out of hisway. He did not talk much; and what attraction he found in MotherAndersen's parlour it was not easy to say. But they knew, at all events,how to treat him there; and he felt, from the casual questions thatwould be addressed to him after he had returned from sea, or from theway in which a newcomer would salute him, that he was in a sympatheticatmosphere, and that his name was in repute. It was even something morethan respect, perhaps, which he inspired, for a sailor would think twicebefore sitting down beside him, unless it came natural to him to do sofrom the way in which they had greeted or spoken to one other.

It was not, however, any attraction which he found in Mother Andersen'sparlour which made him spend so much of his time there; it was that hewas afraid of his own temper at home.

When he had first set up on his own account, and had had his appointmentas a duly certificated pilot for the object of his ambition, he hadnever made it his habit to stay in Arendal when he returned from seainstead of going home. But some two or three years after he had settledout at Merdö, a couple of incidents had occurred which made a newstarting-point, as it were, in his domestic life. They were thenomination of Captain Beck, who was now a wealthy man, to the post ofmaster of the pilots of the district, and who, as such, became hissuperior; and the arrival of Carl Beck to live in Arendal andsuperintend his father's shipbuilding yard, for which purpose he hadretired from the navy. Since the arrival of the Becks he had become moreand more difficult to get on with; and Elizabeth's secret, self-denyingstruggle grew proportionately harder. Whenever she returned from ashopping expedition to Arendal, or from seeing her aunt, she would besure to find him in an irritable humour, which would generally ventit*elf in contemptuous remarks upon old Beck's incapacity for the posthe held; and at last, much as she longed to get a glimpse now and thenof something different from the monotony of her daily life out on Merdö,she gave up going altogether.

Her patience and self-suppression had had the effect, as years went on,of making a tyrant of her husband. When in one of his dark moods now, hewould not tolerate the slightest contradiction from her or from any onein the house, and all she could do was to be quietly cheerful andaffectionate, and to try her best to avoid falling into any of the trapswhich he would lay to catch her, and to make her, by some chance word orother, or even by a slightly displeased or resigned expression, give hisbad humour an excuse for breaking out. She had to weigh every word sheuttered, and to take the most roundabout methods of avoiding hissensitiveness, and after all, she would perhaps commit herself when sheleast expected it; upon which a scene would immediately ensue, thatwould be all the more unpleasant from his never expressing himselfdirectly. Sometimes Salvé was really desperate, and would terrify herwith all kinds of threats, not against her, but against himself—and sheknew he was just the man to carry them out. It had often happened thatfor some unlucky word of hers he had gone to sea again an hour aftercoming home; and once in such weather that she had not the faintest hopeof ever seeing him return.

She would sit at home and weep for hours together, striving to repressthe angry feelings of resentment which would rise from time to time whenshe thought how little return she received for all she gave; how lessthan little her happiness was considered; and how meagre a reward forall she had to endure were the two or three days perhaps of occasionalhappy calm and sunshine in her home, when she seemed to have him withher as he had been in the first early days of their married life, andwhen he would find it as hard to tear himself away from his home againas she knew he had often found it to return. What a heart he had inreality! She alone knew that—the others judged him only by his hard andharsh exterior. And how proud she was of him when she heard the otherstalking of the daring things he had done, and saw how they all looked upto him! But it was not enough. And in the dulness and loneliness of herlife out there on Merdö, she enjoyed to the full, during these manyweary years, her woman's privilege of suffering for the man she loved.But it was not to be so always. Brighter days—little as she nowexpected them—were still in store for her.

CHAPTER XXV.

We may leave for a moment the contemplation of a domestic historylighted up at present by such few and fitful gleams of sunshine, andglance at the married life of another pair who have figured in thisstory, and who have not been without their influence upon whatever theremay have been of tragic in its development.

The young Becks, as they were called in contradistinction to themaster's family, were now among the first people in Arendal, and keptone of the best houses in the town, which they had ample means to do,for the shipbuilding business brought them in a considerable annualincome. Carl Beck had lost none of his attractiveness as he grew older.His curling black hair had now an early sprinkling of grey in it, butwas always arranged to the very best effect; and there was, people said,such a nobleness about him (his cleverness was undisputed) that when herose to propose or reply to a toast, there was not a lady at the tablewho was not in a flutter of inward admiration. With his socialadvantages he could not, of course, fail to be in a position ofconsiderable influence in the town, which again heightened his welcomein society.

But if he was thus made much of, it was not altogether the same with hiswife. The estimate of her which generally prevailed, that she was soperfectly "correct," was not intended perhaps to be complimentary, butimplied at the same time a recognition of her social power. She was, infact, her husband's timepiece, and without her tact he would not havekept himself as straight as he did in the midst of the gushing welcomeswhich he found on all sides.

In his relations with his wife he was a pink of chivalry, never omittedthe most trifling attention, and was always being complimented on beinga pattern husband. Some few of the intimates of the house seemed tothink, though, that there was something strange in their attitude to oneanother—a sort of coolness and reserve about both—and it was whisperedthat his wife did not appreciate him as she ought; it seemed as if thetwo talked together best when strangers were present. Fru Beck, too,always looked so uncommonly pale, and was so frigidly calm, that itmight have been supposed she had no feelings at all; and in comparisonwith his overflowing warmth of nature she certainly did seem dreadfullyprecise and cold.

When they first came to Frederiksværn as a young newly-married couple,her colour had been fresh, and her expression showed that she was stillin love; she was then completely under the spell of his attractivewarmth of manner, and felt safe in the possession of his love. It wastrue, a couple of failings, which contrasted strangely with the idea shehad formed of him from his manly bearing, had gradually disclosedthemselves—namely, an extraordinary vanity, and an almost ridiculousdependence upon the opinion of the world. But so long as his heart wasin the right place, and she could feel that he loved her, thesedisappointments were matters of but secondary consideration to her. Shefelt that she even loved him all the more for these weaknesses; and shetrusted to the power which she was gaining over him more and more everyday to get them presently corrected.

The charming Lieutenant Beck became sought after everywhere, and hissuccess with the ladies resulted in his having very soon establishedsentimental relations with nearly every member of the fair circle aroundhim. He nearly always had a flower in his buttonhole when he came home,which had been jokingly given to him as a gage d'amour by some one orother of his admirers; he received presents from all sides; and they, infact, laid a sort of embargo upon him as an object of generaladmiration.

There was nothing to say against all this—far from it; but the onlyperson who felt left out in the cold was his own wife, who seemed to seethis enthusiastic crowd gradually establishing, as it were, aprescriptive right of way between herself and her husband, and treadingunder foot the very flowers that should have grown only for their owntwo selves in the intimacy of their home. She became gradually a lessanimated, but was still, he thought, an interested listener, when hecame home after being in the society of his lady friends, and recountedhis triumphs. If this was so, she at all events began to be moreparticular about her own dress and appearance, and set to work now tosystematically cultivate the social talent which she naturallypossessed. She determined to conquer her rivals, who had the advantageof her in appearance, but were inferior to her in talent; and shesucceeded. But she became naturally an object for their criticism inconsequence.

The only one with whom she did not succeed was her husband. Hisself-love was far too much taken up with the small flatteries of allkinds, and the homage of which he was the object, to have any eyes forthe very great compliment indeed which was being paid to him by his wifein the line which she had adopted. To her he was married, and thereforeof her he was always sure enough.

It was from that time that she dated the influence which she usuallyacquired in the social circles she frequented, and which her husband'sposition and circ*mstances made it easy for her to maintain when theychanged their residence to Arendal.

But those first years of their married life had not passed without aserious, and to her completely decisive, éclaircissem*nt. It wasoccasioned by his relations with the wife of an officer of rank, whichhad become really more intimate than her pride could stand, although sheknew very well that on her husband's side it was only a sort of mixtureof vanity and policy that prompted his affectation of devotion. She hadtreated the lady with marked coldness at a party where they had met, andher husband had taken her to task for it when they got home.

Entirely wrapped up in himself as he was, it had never occurred to himthat his wife could have any cause of complaint against him, and whatshe had been going through had been altogether lost upon him. She didnot say much now in reply to his reproaches—she merely stood and lookedat him in a way that made him feel rather uncomfortable, and thenquietly left the room. He could hear her going with slow steps up thestairs.

An hour or so after, she came down again into the room with a light inher hand. Her expression was cold, and she did not look at him as sheset about putting the room to rights for the night as usual. He tried topacify her, begged her not to take what he had said so much to heart,and was going to put his arm affectionately round her waist, but wasstopped on finding himself suddenly confronted by the deadly pale faceand flashing eyes of an infuriated woman.

The time had come to speak out, and she did speak out; and LieutenantBeck heard what he would have been very sorry to repeat to his bestfriend. For he felt in his heart that it was nothing but the truth,however soon he might forget it again.

She called him a pitiful wretch, who would sell her and everything theyjointly prized to the first comer for a little miserable flattery. Hehad distributed himself to that extent among his giddy acquaintance, shewent on, with a movement as if she thrust from her something she utterlydespised, that there was nothing left of him for a woman with a vestigeof truth or honour to pick up.

When her husband threw himself upon the sofa, and exclaimed in asentimental tone that he was a miserable man, she repeated the last wordtwice in an inexpressibly contemptuous tone—

"A man!—a man!—if you had been a man, you would still have had mylove—at all events a remnant of it; but now, like this lighthere,"—and she puffed it out,—"all is extinguished between us."

With that she left the room.

Beck sat where he was, overwhelmed and stupefied at this sudden blowwhich had fallen upon his domestic happiness, and with a horribleapprehension that she might have meant what she said in real earnest.

She sat in the room with her child the whole night, and he knew that hedared not disturb her.

Notwithstanding the struggle which it cost his pride, he was almosthumble in his manner towards her for some days after, and warmly andcordially acknowledged that he had been in the wrong. He even tried toshow her that he was in earnest by assuming for a while an alteredattitude towards the ladies, and actually succeeded so far that sheappeared to have forgotten that anything had occurred between them, andwas just the same in her intercourse with him as before—quietlyfriendly that is to say, as she had been of recent years.

It never came to any real reconciliation on her side. She had seen tooclearly that his nature was only that of a drifting cloud, glowing forthe moment just as it was played upon by popular applause; and he wastoo profoundly selfish for any real earnest love to find a root in hiscomposition, much less to give promise of a common life-growth. With hisfeeling and good-nature he would have treated any wife well, even if shehad not made herself so necessary to him as she was; her social talent,she felt, was her great safety—it made him look up to her; and his vainnature required that she should be something to be proud of: but she wasforced to acknowledge in her own heart with despair that she had beenblinded by her love for him, that his nature was absolutely deficient inconstancy and truth, and in every quality which she had once persuadedherself to see in him. She knew the secret about this man, so brilliantbefore the eyes of the world—that he was not a man. He lived and movedbefore her now like a defaced ideal, to which she was tied—to the endof her life. The bitterness of disappointment rankled in her mind, andwas all the more poignant that she had to keep it shut up within herselfand had no one to confide in. Her life had become a desert, and at thevery moment when her husband would be making a brilliant little speechthat called forth applause all round the table, she would seem to hearnothing but a rattle of emptiness. She always protested to her parents,when they could not understand why she looked so pale, that she wasperfectly happy; and they had no reason to think otherwise, for sheseemed to be well cared for in every respect. The only real interestwhich she possessed now in life was her son Frederick; but she broughthim up with the utmost possible strictness, for she fancied she detectedhis father's nature over again in him.

She had always retained her warm interest in Elizabeth, and the messageswhich she had received from her from time to time had always given herpleasure. She had never felt so attracted towards any one since as shehad been to that girl; and now after her great disappointment,Elizabeth's features, so full of character and expression, wereconstantly before her. She had seen her sometimes in Arendal, andthought she knew the reason why Elizabeth always seemed to avoid meetingher; for she had found once, by chance, among some old letters in one ofher husband's drawers, the note which Elizabeth had written to him.

It had been no shock to her. By that time she had come to know hisvolatile nature, and had given up all hope of ever being more to himthan another would be.

On the occasions when she had caught a glimpse of the pilot's wife inthe street, she had looked searchingly into her face to try and satisfyherself whether she looked happy. But she had not been able to do so;there seemed to be something on Elizabeth's mind. And taking thisimpression in connection with what she heard of the pilot, of hishardness and uncompanionable temper, she thought that it was clearenough that Elizabeth too, was unhappy in her married life, and longedto have a talk with her, to know whether she herself was not the moreunhappy of the two.

Nor had Fru Beck's uncommon pallor escaped Elizabeth's notice, and shealso longed to have a talk again with her friend of former days; butBeck's house was for many reasons impossible ground for her. As she wasstanding one day with Gjert on the quay, about to start for home, FruBeck passed a little way off, leaning on her husband's arm, and lookedback with an expression so sad, and with eyes that seemed to linger solongingly, as if she had something she wanted to say, or to confide,that they nodded involuntarily to one another.

Since then they had never met, for from that time Elizabeth had scarcelyever been in Arendal.

CHAPTER XXVI.

Gjert was now ten years old; and whilst his father was sitting over hisglass in Mother Andersen's parlour, he used generally to amuse himselfout in the harbour with a number of the Arendal boys with whom he hadstruck up an acquaintanceship, and who understood very little aboutdifferences of social position.

The brown-haired, brown-eyed little lad, with his sharp, intelligentface, was the wildest of them all, and enjoyed a certain considerationamong them at the same time as his father's son—an honour which heevidently thought it incumbent upon him to maintain by every kind ofbreak-neck exploit. His proper business, of course, was to look afterhis father's boat in his absence; but as it was safely moored, and couldbe seen just as well from any of the yards in the harbour, he usedgenerally to wait in some such conspicuous position till his friendscame streaming down to the quay from school, and throwing their booksdown, sailed out in some punt or other to join him. Most of the boys hadbeen expressly warned by their mothers against the recklessKristiansen's son, but cross-trees and mast-heads became thereby onlythe more attractive.

Old Beck's grandson, Frederick, who was going to be a naval cadet, hadfancied one day that he would escape observation from the windows athome by climbing up to join his friend at the mast-head, on the otherside of the mast; but the slender spar was not sufficient to protect himfrom the master-pilot's keen eye, and the latter came himself on boardin full grandfatherly indignation against the skipper for allowing suchpranks to be played on board his craft, thrashed Gjert for being thecause of his grandson's disobedience, and told him that it was veryclear what he would come to some day—that he came of a bad stock, andtook after it. His own little scion, although a couple of years olderthan Gjert, escaped punishment altogether—the other lads, however,determining among themselves that he should have it the next time theymet. And he would have had it, if Gjert, who should have been the onemore particularly to desire revenge, had not unexpectedly taken hispart.

It was only as they were sailing the cutter home that the pilot heardhow Beck had thrashed his son, and cast his horoscope. His smurched facegrew white as a sheet. But when Gjert went in to tell him how, all thesame, he had taken Frederick Beck's part, his father looked at him insurprise, and then muttered something about "telling this to hismother."

Elizabeth had seen the boat pass Merdö for Arendal the day before, andshe was sitting indoors now expecting her husband, having commissionedtheir youngest and only other son, Henrik, to keep a look-out, and comeand tell her when he saw his father coming. Henrik, however, hadentirely forgotten her injunctions in the more interesting occupation ofcatching shrimps in one of the salt-water pools which a recent high tidehad left among the rocks; and there, in the bright afternoon, over theblue and gold sea, dotted with sails, was the boat with its stripe andnumber already close by, standing straight in for the harbour with aflowing sheet.

With all her deep love for her husband, Elizabeth always awaited hisreturn now with a certain dread; and as she sat there by the window withher work, in her rather foreign, Dutch style of dress, with the rays ofthe evening sun streaming in upon her through the geraniums, she did notlook a happy woman. She was pale, and from time to time leaned her cheekfor a moment on her hand, and closed her eyes with a wearied look, andthen went on again determinedly with her sewing. When she heard hisvoice unexpectedly outside the door, she jumped up hurriedly, butstopped then with a half-frightened look, hesitating whether to go outand meet him or not.

While she hesitated the door opened, and her expression changed at onceto one of cheerfulness, and apparently glad surprise.

"Well, mother, how goes it?" he cried, as he entered, in a light andcheery tone, which took in a moment a weight off her heart; "and whereis the 'bagman'?"—a pet name he had for his youngest son, when he wasin good humour.

Gjert's adventure with Beck's grandson had made him a different manto-day, and had immeasurably lightened for the time his wife's task; butshe was very careful not to let him see that she found him any differentfrom usual. Still, as she helped him off with his pilot-coat he noticedthat her hand trembled. His attention was diverted, however, at themoment by the appearance of Henrik in the doorway, looking veryfrightened and conscious, and with his trousers still tucked up over hisbare legs, and with the tin cup, in which he had his shrimps, in hishand.

Gjert came in now with some of the things for the house which his fatherhad bought in Arendal, and impressing the doleful-looking "bagman" intothe service, took him down with him to the boat to help him to bring upthe rest. He had only given his mother a hurried kiss, as he had seen ata glance that all was right this time. When it was otherwise, he alwayskept by her, and, in look and manner, gave her all the help he could. Hehad seen from his childhood, and comprehended so much of the unhappinessof her relations with his father, that he had constituted himself herfriend and support, although, at the same time, he was devoted to hisfather. When Gjert was in the boat, Elizabeth had a sort of securitythat Salvé would at all events not be absolutely reckless; and Gjertalways took care that she should have news of them by other pilots orfishermen from Merdö, from the different places they put in to. If theboy was not with his father she would sometimes send him in to Arendalto look for him.

This time the pilot made a long stay at home, and during the whole timenot a single domestic jar occurred. For a couple, indeed, who had beenmarried as long as they had, such unbroken harmony would, under anycirc*mstances, have been remarkable. Little Henrik had even had hisfather as a companion on one of his shrimping expeditions; and much ofSalvé's time had since been taken up in rigging a little brig for hisdelighted son.

The only point upon which a harmless little difference occurred was thequestion of Gjert's schooling. They were very fairly well-to-do peoplefor their position, and his mother had one day, as if the idea hadsuddenly occurred to her, asked why they should not send him to schoolin Arendal; he would be able to lodge with her aunt there, she said. Hisfather, however, would not hear of it, and dismissed the subject veryshortly by saying that when Gjert was old enough, he intended him to goto Tergesen's rigging-loft in Vraangen and learn to rig.

His mother could not, however, so easily dismiss the ambitious schemefrom her mind, and it became, a few days after, the occasion of the mostviolent scene which had ever yet put her strength of purpose to thetest, but from which there ensued eventually the very happiest results.

A man-of-war had lately come up to Arendal from a cadet cruise to theMediterranean, and Gjert had been allowed to go over with one of theother pilots to see her.

Apart from the sensation which her lofty rig, the shining brass stoppersprotruding from her gunports, her swarm of sailors, and the sound of theshrill whistle and occasional beat of drum on board, suggestive ofman-of-war discipline, created, curiosity had been further excited bysome rumours which were in circulation about her cruise having been aflogging cruise; and among Gjert's friends, and indeed among the harbourpeople generally, she was so much the object of awe, that whenever thewhistle sounded, it would darkly suggest the thought that anotherflogging was going to take place, and any boats that were near at themoment would sheer off to a more comfortable distance. There was just somuch truth in all this that there was one very hot-tempered officer onboard who was very much hated by the crew, and who had been unfortunateenough to single out for flogging just the man whom, if he had beenbetter advised, he would have left alone—the song-maker, namely, of theship. The result had been that ever since a mystic refrain, sufficientlysignificant, however, had been sung at the capstan, and had found itsway on shore, where it was in the mouth now of every boy about theharbour.

Gjert's curiosity about everything connected with the vessel wasunbounded, and Frederick Beck, with whom he had established a closefriendship since that little affair with the other's grandfather, whenGjert had saved him from punishment, could not tell him half enough."Fancy," he thought, "to be able to go about in a uniform all coveredwith gold like the officers there on board!" He could think and talk ofnothing else all the time they were sailing home next day.

The wind had risen to half a gale, and they had three reefs in themainsail. His father, who for some days past had been wandering withincreasing frequency up to the flag-staff, or down to the quay, where hewould stand with his hand behind his back alone, and look about him inan eager, restless way—sure signs that he was getting tired of being onland—had been up several times to look out for the boy, and was nowsitting in the house, pasting together an old chart, as his son came upfrom the quay shouting out the new song at the top of his voice againstthe wind. He stopped in the porch to collect his breath to give the laststanza with effect, and husband and wife as they listened exchangedglances.

It was easy to see when he came in that he was bursting with theconsciousness of having all sorts of wonderful things to relate. Hismother had just laid the table for their evening meal, and as he greetedthem in an off-hand sort of way, he drew a chair over to the table at thesame time, that he might be ready to fall to the moment the food was setdown.

"Well, Gjert," said his mother, after he had sat and looked round himfor a moment or two, evidently expecting to be invited to gratify theircuriosity, "were you on board?"

"Not myself; but I talked to others who had been. For that matter I saweverything that was to be seen," he assured them with a self-consciousnod, reaching over at the same time for a crust of bread—"from thetopmast of the Antonia, a schooner that was lying close alongside. Shebarely reached up to the Eagle's bulwarks; she would just about make along-boat for her—"

"If she was a good deal smaller," said his father, drily, completing thesentence for him, as he went over and placed the chart upon the top ofthe small cupboard in the corner.

Gjert began then, addressing himself to his mother, to support hisassertion by a comparison of the height out of the water of theschooner's hull and of the corvette's, by assuring her that the vane ather mast-head had not reached higher than the man-of-war's mainyard,&c., but he was interrupted by his father—

"What song was that you were singing out there?"

"Oh, it was the one about the flogging cruise."

"It really was one then?" said the pilot, with a searching look at hisson. He did not easily give credence to gossip of the kind.

To be addressed by his father in this interested tone was highlyflattering to Gjert's self-love. It was this, in fact, that he had beeneager all the time to tell them about; and he burst out now with thedeepest conviction in his manner—

"That it was, father! Some say six, others nine; but that they were allflogged within an inch of their lives and put in irons down in theMediterranean is as certain as—as," he looked about him eagerly herefor something that should be duly emphatic, and when no other morestriking illustration suggested itself, had to wind up finally with thisrather lame one—"as that the cuckoo is standing up there on the clock."

The intelligence had the effect of bringing his mother to a seat, withthe plate on her lap, while she looked apprehensively from her son toher husband. There was nothing, however, in the aspect of the latter tojustify her apprehension.

"Who did you hear this from, Gjert?" she asked.

"Who did I hear it from? From everybody."

But bethinking him then that in his incredulous home "everybody" wouldbe reckoned about as valuable an authority as "nobody," he continued—

"From Frederick Beck. He had talked himself with one of the sailors whowas in charge of the officers' gig down by the landing-stairs while hischief was on shore; and that wasn't all he heard, but a lot of otherqueer things besides." Here he looked round him evidently with asatisfied feeling that he must have convinced them this time at anyrate.

"He seems to have been a credible kind of a chap, that sailor," observedhis father with a mild irony, which escaped his son, however; while hismother looked at him in some anxiety lest he should be going to sitthere and make a fool of himself. "Well, and what further did he tellhim?"

"Oh, lots of things."

"Let us have them."

"He said they had had such a hurricane down there, that they came acrossa whole town that had been blown away drifting out in the middle of thesea, with a minister praying in the midst of it;—then, that they hadrun so close in to the land in beating up the Straits of Gibraltar, thatthey had taken a palm-tree on board on the end of the bowsprit with awhole family of negroes sitting in it, whom they had afterwards to putashore."

Gjert would have delivered himself of still another curious incident ifhe had not been brought up by the laughter of his parents. The "bagman"too, was laughing, because he saw the others doing so, and received acrushing look accordingly from Gjert, who drew in his horns at once.

"Perhaps you don't think it's true?"

"Do you know what it is to spin a yarn, my boy? That lad down in the gighas been spinning you a fine one," said his father, as he sat down tothe table.

Gjert continued to talk all through the meal, and when it was over,while his mother came in and out of the room, and his father sat over atthe window, partly listening and partly looking out at the weather. Hedescribed everything he had seen with such life and vividness,particularly all that concerned the officers and the cadets, that hismother sat down to listen, and his father, when there was a moment'spause, observed with a quiet laugh—

"I daresay you would have liked to have been one of the cadets yourself,
Gjert?"

"Yes," said his mother, beguiled for a moment by the dazzling thought."If he were only to go to school in Arendal no one knows what mighthappen. The clerk says that nothing is any trouble to Gjert."

Something in this observation must have struck discordantly upon herhusband's ear, for he changed colour and replied shortly after, somewhatsarcastically—

"It's my opinion that Gjert is not too good for his father's station,and that we are not going to make interest with anybody to hoist him upinto the company of his betters, as they call themselves."

Gjert's previous animation had been very much heightened by the picturewhich such a glittering prospect presented to his fancy, and he criednow, without taking warning by his father's changed tone—

"Mother was saying, though, the other day, that if I were to be a cadetI should cut a better figure in the world than as an ordinary commonsailor."

It was as if a match had been thrown into a gunpowder-magazine. Hisfather's hard face flushed up wildly, and he threw over at his wife alook of inexpressible, cold scorn. Turning savagely away, he said in acutting tone, that seemed to go through her—

"Do you also despise your father's station, my boy?"

When Gjert blundered out then in his eagerness—

"Frederick Beck is going to be a cadet," it was followed simply by—

"Come here, Gjert!"—and he received a blow that sent him staggeringagainst the table. A second was about to follow, when his fatherhappened to look up at his wife. She had sprung a couple of stepsforward, as if to take Gjert from him, and was standing now before himwith crimson face and flashing eyes, and with a bearing that made him,at all events, lower his hand. She then turned away at once, and wentout into the kitchen.

Salvé stood for a moment uncertain how to act. Then he went to thekitchen door, and announced, shortly and sharply, that he and Gjert weregoing to sea that evening—they would want provisions.

The wind and rain beat wildly against the black window-panes whileElizabeth was carrying out his orders; but when she presently came inwith the ale-jar and what else they were to take with them, not a traceof anxiety, or of her former emotion, was to be detected. Her face waspale, and stony-calm; and there was something almost humble in herbearing towards her husband. But when, for a moment, she and Gjert wereleft alone together in the house, drawing him hastily towards her, shewhispered, in a voice choked with repressed emotion—

"Never let your father see that you are afraid, my boy."

She bade her husband farewell at the door; and there was foul weatherboth within and without the pilot as he put to sea that evening.

CHAPTER XXVII.

Elizabeth was more agitated even than usual after a scene of this kind.When he had struck her son, her indignation had almost mastered her; andit frightened her now to think how near she had been to an explosion.This time the so-often-repeated excuses which she had accustomed herselfto make for him would not suggest themselves; and as she lay awake inthe stillness of the night, and looked back through the years that weregone, it seemed as if she was struggling and labouring on for everwithout any prospect of getting nearer to the goal, and that herpatience was wellnigh exhausted. Had she no claim at all toconsideration? or must she be for ever silent like this, till one ofthem should at last be laid in Tromö churchyard?

These thoughts, having been once roused, would not be repressed again.They held possession of her during the following day too; and she couldsettle down to no work of any kind. She dreaded that Salvé mightunexpectedly return, and did not know how she should receive him,—sheno longer felt sure of being able to control herself. Her own house hadall of a sudden become confined and suffocating, as if it were a prisonin which she had sat for years: it seemed as if she could bear this wayof living no longer.

On one of the following days a neighbour came in with a message from heraunt. She was ill, and wished Elizabeth to come and see her.

Leaving word, accordingly, for Salvé when he returned, where she wasgone, she took Henrik with her, and set out at once for Arendal. It wasalmost a relief to think that she would be away this time when he camehome.

That old Mother Kirstine should be laid up, was, in its way, an event inthe place. Having been professed sick-nurse for so many years, she wasconnected by ties of grateful recollection with a number of families.Men who were now fathers themselves remembered well her face bendingover them when as children they had tossed about in measles or fever;and when any more serious illness now occurred in any of theirhouseholds, she appeared upon the scene as a matter of course withoutwaiting to be sent for. And it was a comfort in itself to see thatstrong, self-possessed old woman, with her quiet experienced tact anduntiring faculty of keeping awake, moving about the sick-bed, and givingher directions with a confidence that brooked no contradiction. Herposition, in fact, was such, that when a new doctor arrived he soonperceived that the first thing he had to do, if he was to have anyreputation in the town, would be to win the confidence of old MotherKirstine.

Young Fru Beck, amongst others, had constantly sent to inquire afterher; and when she heard that Elizabeth was there, she could not resistthe opportunity of going to see her.

It was one evening before dinner—Mother Kirstine had fallen into aquiet sleep, and Elizabeth was sitting by her bedside, when she saw FruBeck pass the window. Elizabeth knew she would come in, and sat withbeating heart waiting for her knock at the door.

Fru Beck must have stood a long while in the porch, for some minutespassed before the latch was stirred. Elizabeth went softly out andopened the door.

They stood face to face. Elizabeth's eyes were full of tears, but FruBeck's feelings were not at that moment so easily expressed. Shesilently pressed Elizabeth's hand, and her manner, and the expression ofher pale face, showed that she was not the less moved of the two attheir meeting again.

Elizabeth showed her into Mother Kirstine's comfortable little kitchen,where a saucepan of broth for her sick aunt was simmering over the fire.She invited her visitor to take a seat. It was so quiet that they couldhear the watch ticking in the next room where her aunt was sleeping.

Neither spoke for a moment or two. Then Fru Beck asked in a low voice—

"How is your aunt, Elizabeth?"

It was a natural question to ask under the circ*mstances, but it wasfelt by both to be only a preliminary breaking of the ice; she had,besides, sent a messenger that morning already to make inquiries.

"Thank you, Fru Beck, she is improving," Elizabeth replied. "She isasleep now, and that will do her good."

"It is a long time since we saw each other—nearly eighteen years," said
Fru Beck, and her eyes dwelt upon Elizabeth as if to find what traces
time had left upon her. "But you have kept strong, I see—stronger than
I have."

"It was that morning I left for Holland," said Elizabeth, seeming torecall it with a certain pleasure.

"I have often thought of that time," whispered Fru Beck, more to herselfalmost than to the person she was talking to. Her lip trembled slightly,and Elizabeth read an expression of mute sorrow in her face. She was onthe point of telling Elizabeth that she knew the reason of her going;but after debating for a moment within herself whether she should ornot, finally let it pass.

"Ah! if we could only see into the future, Elizabeth!" she exclaimedwith a sigh, and looked sadly at her, as if she thought she had givenexpression to a feeling that must be common to them both.

"It is better as it is, Fru Beck. Many things happen in life that wouldnot be so easy to bear if we were cast down beforehand."

"Yes; but one could guard one's self," whispered Fru Beck, with acertain bitterness and hardness in her voice.

Elizabeth made no reply, and there was a pause, which seemed to Fru Beckto have broken the thread of the conversation. She deliberated how sheshould take it up again so as to get at what she wanted to say, andtaking Elizabeth's hand with sudden warmth, she said—

"If there is anything your aunt wants, you know, I hope, that she hasonly to send to me." She would rather have made Elizabeth herself theobject of her interest instead of her aunt, but felt that there was muchin the relations in which they had stood to one another to make thatimpossible; but her meaning was just as clear.

"And for yourself, Elizabeth?" she went on, looking searchingly into hereyes, with an expression of deep sympathy. "All is not right with you: Iam afraid your marriage has not been a happy one."

These last words brought a sudden flush into Elizabeth's face, and sheinvoluntarily withdrew her hand.

She looked at Fru Beck with an expression of wounded pride, as if it wasa subject she declined to discuss.

"That is not the case, Fru Beck," she replied. "I am"—she was going tosay "happily," but preferred to say—"not unhappily married." She feltthat that sounded rather weak, and added—

"I have never loved, never wished for, any one but him who is now myhusband."

"I am overjoyed to hear it, Elizabeth, for I had heard otherwise," saidFru Beck, with some embarrassment—and there was another pause. She feltfrom Elizabeth's manner and bearing that she had wounded herself-esteem; and this last unlucky speech, she was afraid, had madematters worse.

There was a movement in the adjoining room, and Elizabeth was glad of anoccasion to break the rather painful silence, and went in to her auntfor a moment.

Fru Beck looked after her with a rather surprised, but an unsatisfied,expression; she must have been mistaken: but still, happy in her homeElizabeth could scarcely be. And yet, she thought bitterly, what a gulfthere was between them! She, at all events, loved her husband.

When Elizabeth returned, Fru Beck, with the idea of effacing theimpression she had already produced, and to satisfy, at the same time,her own longing to open her heart to somebody, said—

"You must not be offended at what I said, Elizabeth. I thought thatothers might have sorrow too."

"We all have our burden, and often it is very hard to bear," rejoinedElizabeth. She understood very well what Fru Beck's words had meant, andlooked at her compassionately; but she avoided answering directly towhat she thought had been blurted out unintentionally, and said—

"You have a son. That should be a great happiness, Fru Beck, and much tolive for."

"To live for!" she exclaimed—"to live for! I will confide to yousomething that no one but you now knows. I am dying—dying every day. Noone knows as well as I do myself how much is left of me. It is little,and it will soon be less." She spoke in a cold, pale kind of ecstasy."You are the only creature I have told this to—the only one on thisearth I really care about; hear it and forget it. And now, adieu," shesaid; "if we ever meet again in this world, don't let the subject bementioned between us." She felt blindly for the door, and opened it.

"Every cross comes from above, and the worst of all sins is to despair,"said Elizabeth, with an attempt at consolation; she said what mostreadily occurred to her at the moment.

Fru Beck turned at the door, and looked back at her with a white, calm,joyless face.

"Elizabeth," she said, "I found this in one of my husband's drawers. Itell it you, that you may not think that that has been in any way thecause of my spoilt life."

She took from her pocket a scrap of paper, yellow with age, and handedit to her. The door closed behind her then, and she was gone.

Elizabeth sat still for a long while in sad distress, thinking of her.Now she understood why Fru Beck was so pale. She had not a wrinkle inher face—it looked so noble; but oh how cold, how pinched it hadbecome! Poor, poor woman! her burden was indeed a heavy one. It wouldhave been difficult to recognise Marie Forstberg again in her.

"That, then, it is to have married unhappily," she said to herself. Sheseemed to have gazed into some terrible abyss.

Her friend's sorrows continued to occupy her thoughts as she sat by heraunt's bedside; and when at last her feelings of compassion had calmeddown, another point in their conversation that had been hitherto throwninto the background came into increasing prominence. It lay in the wordsthat had so suddenly and grievously wounded her.

"So, that is what the world says of us," she thought: "that our marriagehas been unhappy."

She had time and solitude enough, while tending her patient and sittingup with her, to ponder the matter; and as she thought over her marriedlife, and contemplated unflinchingly the constant, weary, fruitlessstruggle in which it had passed, and in which she had not advanced onesingle step, but rather had been going always, always back, more andmore, she asked herself, could she say that there was happiness in alife like that? And was Salvé himself happy? She saw him before her ashe was in his early youth, and as he was now—gloomy, savage, andsuspicious in his home; she thought how she welcomed him always withdisguised dread instead of with a wife's joy, how they had last parted,and what feelings she had since entertained; and she dwelt long andbitterly upon the contrast. To think that it should have come to thisbetween them! She began with dread to reflect, "Perhaps this is whatthey mean by an unhappy marriage." It had never occurred to her beforethat such a thing could be said of her—of her, who had married the manwhom of all others in the whole world she wished to marry.

She sat on far into the night with her hands folded on her knee, andgazing straight before her, the night-light from the glass behind thebed throwing its faint light over the room. Fru Beck's words, as shestood there so pale, and told her of her unhappiness, recurred to heragain and again, more distinctly, it seemed, each time. "I am dyingevery day. I know best myself how much is left of me. It is very little,and will soon be less."

It seemed then all in a moment to flash upon her—

"That is just how Salvé and I are living. We are wasting away—we aredying every day beside each other. That is what people do who areunhappily married."

She sat for a long while, with her head bent forward, sorrowfullyengrossed with this thought. In all the self-sacrifice she hadpractised, because she thought he could not bear to hear the truth, shesaw now nothing but one long corroding lie. It was owing to the want ofconfidence in each other, of mutual candour—to their both havingshunned the truth, the only sure ground of happiness, that their lifetogether had been thus spoilt. She threw back her head with a look ofwild energy in her face, and never had she looked more handsome thannow, as she exclaimed decisively—

"But there shall be an end of this! Salvé and I shall no longer make adesert of each other's life!" and she rose from her chair in greatagitation.

"What are you saying, Elizabeth?" asked her aunt, whom she hadunconsciously awakened.

"Nothing, dear aunt," she answered, and bent over the invalid with a cupof broth, which she had been keeping warm over the night-light.

"You look so—so happy, Elizabeth."

"It is because you have slept so well, aunt; and if you drink this youwill go to sleep again."

There was a quiet smile on her lips now, and her whole bearing waschanged. The burden of years was taken off her heart. At last thechilling, heavy, bewildering fog which had enclosed her whole life,making every footstep, every thought, every joy uncertain, had lifted,and she could clearly see her way.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

Salvé had been lucky; he had piloted an English bark into Hesnaes, andhis services had been liberally acknowledged. He had, as usual, lookedforward with dread to coming home again; but when he found his wife notthere, and heard the reason, he had set off at once for Arendal to seeafter her.

She received him out in the passage.

"Good morning, Salvé," she said, shaking hands with him. "I have beenanxious about you, as you may suppose, and have been expecting you. Youmustn't make a noise—come this way," and she showed him into the roomat the side. "Where is Gjert?"

He looked at her in surprise; this was not her usual way of receivinghim. There was a confidence in her tone, as if she had taken uponherself to call him to account for his absence. It had hitherto been healways who had taken the initiative and been in a gracious humour ornot, according as it pleased him.

"Gjert," he answered, rather shortly, "is at home in the house. So youhave been anxious about me—expected me?" he added, in a peculiar tone,as if he found something to remark upon in this way of addressing him,but deferred comment for the present.

"Why, you know, goodman, that it can't be the same to me if you are lostout there at sea."

"How is your aunt?" he asked, abruptly. "Is she seriously ill?"

"She can see you. Come in with me, but step gently."

Salvé felt that he could not very well refuse, and followed her. He hadalways, as far as possible, avoided seeing Mother Kirstine, and had lefthis wife to represent him in that quarter. He was afraid of thepenetrating eyes which the old woman turned upon him, and had neverforgotten the warning she had given him not to go near Elizabeth as longas he harboured a doubt against her in his heart.

It was with great deference that he now approached her bedside.

"Oh, it's you, Salvé," she said, in a weak voice. "It's not often I havea sight of you. Elizabeth has been such a blessing to me; and Henrik isso quiet and good. Where is Gjert? Have you not brought him with you?"And her eyes wandered in search of the boy.

"He is at home taking care of the house, aunt. How are you?"

"Oh, thanks—as you see. I think so often what will become of that boy;he is so wild, but with such a good nature, poor fellow!"

"Oh, we shall make something of him, you'll see," said Elizabeth, whohad been standing behind Salvé, and now came forward. "But you must nottalk so much."

Salvé's face grew stern; this was the most unfortunate topic which couldhave been suggested. And matters were presently made worse by MotherKirstine saying, when there was a pause—

"You looked so glad last night, Elizabeth! Who was it that was sittingwith you talking yesterday?"

"It was Fru Beck."

"The young one?"

"Yes. But you talk too much, aunt."

"I am afraid so too," thought Salvé; and as he saw Elizabeth, as ifnothing had happened, motioning to him now to come away, he controlledhimself for the moment, and said a little constrainedly—

"You will be quite well, aunt, I hope, by the time I come again perhapsin a few days. Good-bye till then."

He left the room rather brusquely, and his face was black as thunder.

Elizabeth read his thoughts, and when they came out into the kitchen sheforestalled him.

"Listen, Salvé," she said; "I must, of course, stay here as long as auntis ill."

"Of course," he replied; "and you have acquaintances here."

"You mean Fru Beck? Yes, she has been so kind to me, and I am attachedto her—she is unhappily married, poor thing!"

Salvé was astounded. Elizabeth seemed all in a moment to have forgottena great deal—to have forgotten that there existed certainstumbling-blocks between them—was it perhaps because she was in heraunt's house? He looked coldly at her as if he could not quitecomprehend what had come over her.

"You will remain, of course, as long as you please," he said, andprepared to go; but could not help adding with bitterness—

"I daresay you find it lonely and dull at home."

"You are not so far wrong there, Salvé," she replied. "I have indeedfound it lonely enough out there for many years now. You are so oftenaway from home, and then I am left quite alone. It is two years nowsince I have been in here to see my aunt."

"Elizabeth," he burst out, trying hard to restrain himself, "have youtaken leave of your senses?"

"That is just what I want to avoid, Salvé," she said, with freezingdeliberation.

He stared at her. She could stand and tell him this to his face!

"So these are your sentiments, then," he observed, scornfully. "I alwayssuspected it; and now, for what I care, you may please yourself aboutcoming home, Elizabeth," he continued in a cold, indifferent tone.

"You ought always to have known what my sentiments were, Salvé; that Iwas, perhaps, too much attached to you."

"I shall send you money. You shall not have that as an excuse. So far asI am concerned, you may enjoy the society of Fru Beck and your finefriends as long as ever you please."

"And why should I not be allowed to speak to Fru Beck?" she cried, withher head thrown back, and with an expression of rising anger. "You don'tmean, I suppose, that there is anything against me that should preventmy entering her house? But there must be an end to this, Salvé—and itis for the sake of our love I say it; for if matters go on as they havebeen going on so long between us," she concluded slowly, and with atremor in her voice, "you might live to see the day when it had ceasedto exist. These things are not in our own power, Salvé."

He stood for a moment still, and gazed at her in speechless amazement,while the flash of his dark keen eyes showed that a devil had beenroused within him, which he had the utmost difficulty in restraining.

"I will suppose that you have said this in a moment of excitement," hesaid, with terrible calmness; "I shall not be angry with you—I shallforget it; I promise you that. And I think that you have not been quiteyourself to-day—ill—"

"Don't deceive yourself, Salvé. I mean every word—as surely as I loveyou."

"Farewell, Elizabeth; I shall be here again on Wednesday," he said, asif he only held to his purpose, and did not care to hear any more ofthis. He left her then, and shut the door quietly behind him.

When he had gone, Elizabeth sank rather than sat down upon the bench.She was frightened at what she had said. A profound dread tookpossession of her. She knew his nature so well, and knew that she wasrisking everything, that the result might be that he would leave heraltogether, and take to some misguided life far away from home. And yetit must—it must be dared. And with God's help she would conquer, andbind him to her closer than ever he had been before.

CHAPTER XXIX.

As Salvé stood and steered for home, he had as yet only a dullconsciousness of what had occurred; but there was anger in his eye, anda hard determined look in his face. His pride had received a terribleshock. She had suddenly fallen upon him with all this on neutral ground;she had told him plainly that she had been unhappy, and that she feltshe had been living under a tyranny the whole time of their marriedlife. He smiled bitterly—well, he had been right, it seemed, all alongin feeling that she was not open with him.

Yes, it was true that they had lived unhappily; but whose fault had itbeen? Had she not deceived him when he was young and confiding, and didnot know what doubt was? And since?—he knew but too well what it hadcost her to adapt herself to his humble circ*mstances.

He felt that the power which he had had over her for so many years wasgone. It was as if she had all of a sudden set down a barrel ofgunpowder on the floor of his house and threatened to blow it up. Suchthreats, however, would have no weight with him.

When he came to Merdö he moored the cutter in silence—scarcely lookingat Gjert, who came down to help him—and went in, without speaking, tothe house, where he stood by the window for a while writing on thewindow-pane. It was soon quite dark outside; Gjert had lit a candle, andhad sat down by the table. He understood that there was something wrongagain with his mother, but did not dare to ask after her, as he waslonging to do. His father, during the rest of the evening, never stirredfrom the corner of the bench which was his son's sleeping-place; it wasmade to serve the double purpose of bench and bed.

When supper-time arrived, Gjert put some food on the table. He felt thatthe situation somehow was dangerous, and went on his tiptoes to make aslittle noise as possible; but he was the more awkward in consequence,and made a clatter with the plates.

This, and the dread of him which his son showed, irritated Salvé. Heflared up suddenly, and burst out in a thundering voice—

"Don't you ask after your mother, boy?"

Gjert would have been frightened under ordinary circ*mstances, but hisanxiety for his mother, for whom his heart bled, gave him courage toanswer boldly—

"Yes, father; I have been wanting all the time to ask how mother was. Isshe not coming? Poor mother!" and the boy burst into tears, laid hishead upon his arm, and sobbed.

"Mother will come back when her aunt over in Arendal is well again,"said the pilot, soothingly. But he soon broke out again.

"You have nothing to blubber for," he said; "you can go in and see herif you like t-omorrow morning the first thing. You may go now and sleepin our bed."

Gjert obeyed; and his father paced to and fro on the floor afterwardsfor a long while in great agitation.

"That is her game, then, is it?" he exclaimed. "She knew what she wasabout, and she knew who it was she was threatening."

He sat down again on the bench-bed with clasped hands, and eyes fixed onthe ground. Passion was working strongly within him.

"But she does not put compulsion upon me."

The candle was expiring in the socket, and he lit another and put it inits place. It was past midnight. He remained for a little with thecandlestick in his hand, and then took the light in to Gjert. The boywas lying in his mother's place, and had evidently cried himself tosleep.

His father stood for a long while over him. His lips quivered, and hisface became ashy pale. He controlled himself with an effort and wentback to the other room, where he sat down in the same attitude asbefore.

When Gjert came in in the morning, he found his father lying down on thebench with all his clothes on. He was asleep. It was evident that he hadsat up the whole night. It went to the boy's heart; and he felt sorryfor his father now.

The latter woke shortly after and looked at him rather confusedly atfirst. Then he said, gently—

"I promised you yesterday, my boy, that you should go to your mother in
Arendal. I daresay she is wanting to see you."

"If mother is not ill I had rather stay here with you, father, until yougo in to see her yourself. She has Henrik with her."

"You would?" said his father, in a rather toneless voice, and looking athim as if some new idea had been suggested to him by the boy's reply.

"But I wish you to go, Gjert," he said then, suddenly, in a changedtone, that admitted of no further question. "Mother took no things withher. You must take her Sunday gown, and what else you know she willwant, in with you in the trunk there. It may be a long whilebefore—before aunt is well," he said, and left the house.

While Gjert packed up the things, his father went down to the strand andgot the row-boat ready himself for him.

When the boy started he stroked the child's cheek, but said a littlebitterly, "Remember me to your mother now, and say that father iscoming, as he promised, on Wednesday. Be careful, now, how you go. Ihave only given you the oars; I don't like to trust you with a sail inthe boat."

He stood for some time looking after his son as he rowed sturdily away,and then went up to the look-out, where he began to walk up and downwith his hands behind his back in his usual manner. His restlessness ofmind, however, soon drove him back again to the house, where he remainedalone nearly the whole day.

The first intensity of his anger had so far worked itself off now, thathe could think clearly; and the chief feeling which possessed him wasone of wonder as to what could have come over her all of a sudden likethis. It could hardly be that scene which they had had when he last wentto sea—it had not been the first of its kind. No—it must be somethingelse; it must have been something which had occurred in Arendal. She hadspoken of Fru Beck's unhappy married life with a certain significance,as if it bore upon their own. That was evidently it—she had beentalking to Fru Beck; she must have been put up to it by her old friend.

"What gratitude I do owe these Becks!" he exclaimed; "it seems as ifevery trouble must come from that owl's nest."

"She has gone and thought all this at home here, concealing it from methe whole time, submitting, and saying nothing. Now she has found heropportunity. And over there, in Arendal, she could, of course, countupon being able to make her own terms against her husband, the unpopularpilot—could be sure of having every one on her side, from her aunt tothese same Becks."

Yes; and what was the real history of her connection with the Becks? Hehad never had that matter satisfactorily cleared up.

"She stipulated that I should trust her—wouldn't hear mention of adoubt. But I have never felt satisfied about that business."

"I'll not be fooled by you any longer," he cried then, flying into asudden passion, and striding up and down the room. "It is she who mustgive me an explanation; it is she who has trampled me under foot!"

He sat down at the table and pursued this train of thought.

"Elizabeth! Elizabeth! what have you done?" he whispered, presently,with emotion, and hid his forehead in his hands.

"Yes, what has she done? Nothing, I firmly believe; and that it is justyou, Salvé, who are mad! Ah! if I could only really believe that therewas nothing to quarrel about, after all! And I can believe it, if I haveonly been with her for a while," he sighed; and then added with a touchof self-contempt, "the fact is, I ought never to go away from home. I amlike an anchovy; I don't bear taking out of the jar!

"She was so like the old Elizabeth as she stood there and told me allthis; it is years since I have seen her like that. There's not her matchto be found the whole world through.

"She has told me so often that she cares for me, has always cared forme, ever since the time she was living with her grandfather out on therock; and an untruth never came from her lips. I'd stake my life uponthat.

"For truth—I believe you, Elizabeth, when you stand like that and tellme so," and he struck the table as if he was making the declaration toher face.

"But why should she care for me?" he went on. "Have her thoughts notbeen running always on things much beyond what I, a poor pilot, and myhumble cottage can give her? Has she not always been hankering aftersomething grand?"

During these days, while this conflict of thought was surging to and frowithin him, he had the appearance of a man distraught; and if he everleft the house, he could not rest until he had returned to it again. Theprolonged agitation of mind had told upon him, and he was sittingnow—the day before the one when he was to go in to Arendal again—alonein his house, feeling very low and depressed; it looked so dreary andempty.

Over in the window, by the leaf-table, where she generally sat to sew,stood the polished buffalo-hoof which he had brought long ago as acuriosity from Monte Video, and had since had made into a weight forher; and by the wall, under the old print of the Naiad, was theelephant, carved out of bone, which he had also had from the time whenhe was roaming through the world as a sailor before the mast.

He gazed at these things for a while absently, and then went in to theirbedroom.

There was the chest of drawers by the wall, on which she always placedthe lacquered glass which hung in the other room, when she arranged herbeautiful hair. How many a conversation they had had together as shestood there with her back to him; and what a figure she had! oftenanswering him with merely a change of expression as she looked back athim over her shoulder. Everything in the room had some such vivid memoryto suggest; and as he sat dismally on the side of their bed, adjoiningwhich was little Henrik's, his thoughts were occupied with many atrivial recollection of the kind, which might seem almost childish in aman of his age and character, and of such a stern, black-beardedexterior; but he was anything but stern now.

Presently his eyes ceased to wander. He sat perfectly still. Theconviction had seized him that he could not possibly do without her; andas he looked slowly about him a great terror seemed to be takingpossession of him. He imagined that she was really gone—that in someway or another he had really lost her, and that everything in the roomwas standing just as she had left it, and as it would stand unmoved,undusted for ever.

"I have deserved it," he muttered; and a cold perspiration came out uponhis forehead. "Have I treated her in such a way that I have any right toexpect her to care for me? Is it not just my own folly that is to blame?She was right—more than right. I have behaved shamefully to her,suspiciously, and tyrannically—invariably, unceasingly; and now I maysit here long enough and repent it, to no purpose. She would not be whatshe is if she tamely submitted to such treatment."

He dwelt upon this last thought until the scales seemed to drop from hiseyes, and, acknowledging the truth at last, he broke out with bitterscorn against himself—

"The fact is, in my cursed pride I have never been able to bear thethought that she might have been better off—that I was not good enoughfor her, not fit for her; that is what has been at the bottom of it all:and as I would not acknowledge that, I have insisted always to myselfthat I could not trust her.

"Do I really believe this?" he asked himself then slowly, and fell intothought again, his face growing darker and darker every minute.

"What a good-natured booby, fool, idiot, I am!" he cried, with ascornful laugh. "No, it is she who has been false and untruthful, shewho must acknowledge it, she who is bound to give me, once for all, fullexplanation. Yes, it is she who must bend, and then she may have someclaim to hear from me what I too may have to reproach myself for in myacts or bearing towards her. That is how it is, and that is how it shallbe!"

A hard, inexorable look overspread his face as he said this; but for amoment he appeared almost moved again—

"I shall speak kindly to her—be so gentle—forget everything.

"But bend she shall," he added; and that decision was evidently final.

CHAPTER XXX.

That evening was passed by Elizabeth in a terrible struggle withherself. When Gjert had brought her clothes she had turned very pale,and had felt as if she had undertaken what she would not have strengthto carry through. And now that the decisive moment had nearly come, thisfeeling increased almost to despair.

They had all gone to bed in the house. It was so quiet about her; and afeeling came over her such as she had experienced that time on theApollo, as she sat and waited whilst they approached the sandbanks.Early next morning the crisis would inevitably come; and it was aquestion now of losing more than the brig—of losing all they jointlypossessed on earth! She saw a long, dreary life-strand stretching awaybeyond.

This time it was she who was at the helm, and steering a desperatecourse—to save her love. A solemn look came over her face. The prayerfor seamen in danger, which she had so often used when the gusts wereshaking the house out there on Merdö, and she sat waiting for him in hersolitary home, came into her head now—the prayer that God might savehim from a sudden death.

A sudden death!

If he really had been lost on one of those many occasions when he hadparted from her with bitterness and anger in his heart! Would her lovethen have been a blessing to him?

"No, Salvé!" she cried; "you shall not have me to thank for such a lifein your last hour!"

In the night she awoke with a scream. She had dreamt that Salvé wasgoing to leave her for ever, and she cried frantically after him,"Salvé! Salvé!"

CHAPTER XXXI.

His two sons were waiting for him when the pilot came up to the jettynext morning. Little Henrik had begun to shout to him gleefully while hewas still some way off; but Gjert was quiet. He had seen enough to feelthat there must be something serious the matter between his parents, andhe was depressed.

"Good morning, boys!" said their father, kindly; "how is your—aunt?"

"Better," replied Gjert.

"She sleeps in the daytime, too," added the "bagman," triumphantly—hehad discovered that this was what was required to make her well again.He then threw his cap down on the stones with a great sailor air, andwith an eager "hale-hoi—o—ohoi!" began to haul in the shore-rope whichhis father had thrown, while Gjert, paying no attention whatever to hisbrother's efforts, made it fast to the mooring-ring.

"That's good lads! Stay here now, both of you, by the boat, and lookafter her till I come back," said their father. "See, Gjert, that Henrikdoesn't leave the quay."

He left them then, and went rapidly up the street.

Elizabeth was standing by the hearth expecting him; and something of aSunday calm seemed to have come over her as she stood there. She heardhim out in the passage; and when he entered, a rapid flush passed overher fine features, but it disappeared again immediately, and she staredat him with half-open lips, forgetting to greet him. At the same time,there was a conscious self-possession in her bearing which did notescape him. That was the Elizabeth he loved.

He came to the point at once; and looking her full in the face, beganwith great earnestness—"Elizabeth, I have a serious accusation to makeagainst you. You have not been frank towards me—you have disguised yourreal feelings from me for many years, I am afraid during the whole timewe have lived together."

He spoke gently, and as though he had no desire to press the charge, butmerely waited to hear her make a full acknowledgment before he forgaveher. She stood, however, without raising her eyes from the ground, herface pale, and her bosom heaving.

"And yet how I have loved you, Elizabeth!—more dearly than my life," headded.

She still remained for a moment silent, and had to summon all hercourage now to speak. At last she said, in a rather strained voice, andwithout lifting her eyes—

"I hear you say it, Salvé. But I have been thinking a good deal lately."

"You have been thinking, Elizabeth?" he repeated, "what have you beenthinking?" and his expression changed in a moment to the dark, stern oneshe knew so well. He had made his advance; further he would not go.

"Am I right, or am I not?" he asked, sharply.

"No, Salvé, you are not right," she replied, turning to him now with alook that seemed fired by all she had endured; "you are not right. It isyourself, and yourself only, you have loved all along; and when you tookme as your wife, you merely took another to help you. There were twoabout it then, and even so it was not enough. No! no!" she cried,striking out her hand with an emphatic gesture in the bitterness of herfeeling—"if you had loved me as I have loved you, we would not bestanding before one another as we are this day!"

He was taken aback for a moment by this unexpected outburst, but repliedin a cold hard voice, while his eyes never moved from her face, "I thankyou, Elizabeth, for having at last told me your thoughts, though itcomes a little late. You see I was right when I said that you had notbeen frank towards me."

"I have not been frank with you, you say? Yes, that is true," sherejoined, while her eye met his unflinchingly. "And it is to my honour.I have submitted to be an object of suspicion in my own house. I haveshut my eyes and persisted in believing that you cared for me, in spiteof the heavier burden which you were every day imposing upon me—inspite of all that I have had to endure—and it has been much, very much,Salvé,—and I have done all this because I believed it was my duty, andbecause I thought you could not bear to hear the truth, and because Ihoped that I might conquer in the end, and make you really love me as Ihave all along, and but too well, loved you, Salvé. It is true that Ihave not been frank with you. And, I repeat, it is to my honour."

This interpretation of their relations together was not one which hechose to accept, and he rejoined in the same hard tone as before—

"However cleverly you may have tried to conceal it, Elizabeth, it hasalways been but too evident to me what you have endured in trying toaccommodate yourself to the humble circ*mstances of a man like me. Iknow as well as you that a common seaman was little suited to be yourhusband—I have always known it from the time we were first engaged,when we stood before Van Spyck's portrait in Amsterdam. That was thesort of man, I knew very well, whom you ought to have had for a husband.I saw it again, as I have seen it always, when you made comparisonsbetween the North Star and my poor brig—"

"Salvé!" she exclaimed, passionately, unable to control herself anylonger—"what rubbish are you talking? Do you not know perfectly wellthat if you had been an admiral itself you never would have been greaterin my eyes than you are now, and always have been as a simple pilot? Andpray, whom was I thinking of when I was looking at Van Spyck? why, ofwhom but of you?—thinking that the man called Salvé Kristiansen, whostood behind me, was just the one to have done what Van Spyck did. Orwhen I was admiring the North Star was I not thinking then too: If you,Salvé, were in command of her, they would see what she could really dowith a proper man on board? What possible interest do you suppose Icould have in the North Star, except in connection with you? Were notyou, poor skipper of the Apollo, worth more, a thousand times more tome, than a hundred North Stars with all their bravery?"

When she spoke like this it was impossible not to believe every singleword of what she said, and Salvé's expression while she had beenspeaking had gradually changed to one of inexpressible happiness. So itwas really he, and he alone, who had been the hero of her life! and hestretched out his arms to her, as though, like Alcibiades of old, hewould end the discussion by clasping her to his heart and carrying herstraight off with him to his home. But he was arrested by the deeprepelling seriousness with which she continued—

"No, Salvé!—it is not which that stands between us, however ingeniouslyyou may have discovered it—it is not that,—it is something else. It isthat you don't trust me in your heart; that is the truth—and that hasbeen the real source of all these morbid ideas you have formed.

"And look you," she went on, with wild anguish in her voice, "we shallnever get on together as long as you encourage the faintest suspicion ofsuch thoughts; we shall never have peace beside our hearth—that peacethat I have been striving for all these years, when I have beensubmitting, as I did, to everything—in a way that you know well, Salvé,was very far from natural to me," and as she said this she looked with amagnificent air at him; "and if you cannot yet understand that—may Godhelp you—and us!" she ended in despair, and turning half away again tothe fire, stared dejectedly into it.

He stood before her half-averted form as if he had been paralysed, andscarcely dared to look up at her, with such truth had all that she hadsaid come home to him. She had held a mirror up to their life together,and he saw himself in it so utterly selfish and so small by the side ofall this love. He was profoundly pained and humbled, and was toonaturally truthful to wish not to acknowledge it.

He went absently to the window and stood there for a moment.

"Elizabeth," he said then, despondently, turning round, "you still mustknow in your heart that you have been everything in this world to me.But I know where my great fault to you has been, and I'll tell it younow, fully and freely, even if you must despise me for it. Yes,Elizabeth, it is true I have never been able to feel absolutely certainthat I had full possession of your heart—though, God be praised, youhave taught me differently to-day—since that time,"—it evidently costhim a struggle to go on with the humiliating confession—"since thatbusiness between you and the lieutenant. That has been the thorn in myflesh," he said, gently, as if opening his inmost heart to her, "which Ihave not been able to get rid of, in spite of my better reason. And Idon't know but what it may still be there. There lies my weakness—Itell it you plainly and honestly; but at the same time I can't give youup, Elizabeth.

"I have always seen," he continued, "that the proper husband for youwould have been a man who was something in the world—such a one as he,and not a man of no position like me. In my pride I never could bear thethought—and it is that that has made me so full of rancour against allthe world, and so suspicious and bad towards you. I have not been strongenough—not like you—but I can truly say I have struggled with myweakness, Elizabeth," he said, pale with intensity of feeling, andlaying both his hands on her shoulders, and looking into her face.

She felt that his arms were trembling, and her eyes filled withtears—it went to her heart to see him like this. All at once on asudden thought she withdrew herself from his hands and went into thelittle room adjoining the one they were in, and opened a drawer there.She came out with the old note in her hand and held it out to him—

"That is the letter I wrote to the lieutenant the night I left the
Becks'."

He looked at her a little wonderingly.

"Fru Beck gave it to me," she said. "Read it, Salvé."

He looked at the large clumsy writing and spelt out—

"Forgive me that I cannot be your wife, for my heart is given toanother.—Elizabeth Raklev."

He sat down on the bench and read it over again, while she bent overhim, looking now at the writing, and now at his face.

"What do you find there, Salvé?" she asked. "Why could I not be Beck'swife?"

"'Because my heart is given to another,'" he answered, slowly, andlooking up at her with moistened eyes.

"Not yours; it is I who loved another. And who was that other?"

"God bless you—it was me!" he said, and drew her down upon his kneeinto a long, long embrace.

* * * * *

The boys had become tired of waiting down at the boat, the "bagman"especially, since it was clearly past dinner-time; the bell had rungover at the dry-dock, and the town boys had already passed from school.His white head and heated face appeared now at the kitchen-door, andwith scarcely a glance over to where his father and mother were sittingon the bench together looking very happy, he turned at once to thehearth and became aware of the sad fact that there was positively noporridge to be seen; there was not even a fire. Coming bodily into theroom, he asked, with tears in his voice—

"Have you had dinner? Are Gjert and I not to have any, then?"

His mother sprang up. "And aunt!" she exclaimed. "I declare it ishalf-past one, and no dinner put down!" Henrik was glad to find that theworst danger was over.

Mother Kirstine had conjectured that there must be something particulargoing on between the pair in the kitchen, and that was the reason shehad not called Elizabeth. When the latter now came in, she looked at herinquiringly, and asked if anything had happened.

"The happiest thing of my whole life, aunt," said Elizabeth, coming overto the bed and embracing her impetuously. She hurried back then to herbusiness in the kitchen.

The old woman looked after her, and nodded her head a couple of timesslowly, thoughtfully. "No—so?"

"He is joking with little Henrik," she said then to herself. "That iswonderful: I have never heard him laugh before."

When they went to dinner in the kitchen Salvé left them—he was nothungry—and came in to her. He had a great deal to say, and was a longwhile away.

CHAPTER XXXII.

It was an afternoon in the following winter in the pilot's home. Hiswife was expecting him, and kept looking uneasily out of the window. Hewas to have been home by noon, and it was now beginning to get dark; andthe weather had been stormy the whole of the previous day.

She gave up sewing, and sat thinking in the twilight, with the lightplaying over the floor from the door of the stove, where a little kettlewas boiling, that she might have something warm ready for him at oncewhen he came. It was too early to light a candle.

Gjert was at school in Arendal, living at his aunt's; and Henrik wassitting by the light from the stove, cutting up a piece of wood intoshavings.

"It is beginning to blow again, Henrik," she said, and put ahandkerchief round her head to look out.

"It is no use, mother," he pronounced, without stirring, and splitting along peg into two against his chest; "it's pitch-dark, isn't it?" So shegave it up again before she got to the door, but stood and listened; shethought she had heard a shout outside.

"He is coming!" she cried, suddenly, and darted out; and when Salvéentered the porch from the sleet squall that had just come up, with hissou'wester and oilskin coat all dripping, he found himself, all wet ashe was, suddenly encircled in the dark by a pair of loving arms.

"How long you have been!" she cried, taking from him what he had in hishands, and preceding him into the house, where she lit a candle. "Whathas kept you? I heard that you had taken a galliot up to Arendalyesterday, and thought you would have been here this morning. It wasdreadful weather yesterday, Salvé; so I was a little anxious," shecontinued, as she helped him off with his wet oilskin coverings.

"I have done well, Elizabeth," he said, looking pleased.

"On the galliot?"

"Yes, and I had a little matter to arrange in Arendal, which kept methere till after midday."

"You saw Gjert, then?"

"I did." He looked a little impatiently towards the door.

"And he is well?"

"He can tell you now, himself," was the reply, as the door at the momentopened and Gjert entered with a loud "Good evening, mother!"

She sprang towards him in astonishment, and threw her arms round him."And not a dry stitch on the whole boy!" she cried, with motherlyconcern.

"But, Salvé dear, what is the meaning of this? How can the boy come awayfrom school?"

"When we have changed our clothes and warmed ourselves a little, I'lltell you, mother," answered the pilot, slily. "He will be at home withyou the whole week."

Gjert was evidently ready to burst with some news or other, but he hadto restrain himself until his father had taken his seat by the fire thatwas crackling brightly on the hearth in the kitchen, and had leisurelyfilled his pipe, and taken two or three pulls at it.

"Now then, Gjert," he said, "you may tell it. I see you can't keep it inany longer."

"Well, mother!" he exclaimed, "father says that I shall be an officer inthe navy; and so he has taken me from school and is going with me toFrederiksvoern next week."

Henrik's mouth opened slowly, while Elizabeth, who was stirring theporridge, suspended that operation, and looked in something like alarmat her husband.

"What do you mean, Salvé?"

"Wouldn't it be a fine thing, don't you think, to see the boy come hometo you some day in a smart uniform, Elizabeth? You have always had aturn for that sort of thing," he added, jokingly. "And since youcouldn't go in for it yourself,—as they don't take womenfolk in thenavy—and it was not much in my line either,—why, I thought we couldmake the experiment with Gjert."

"Are you really in earnest, Salvé?" she asked, looking at him still insuspense.

He nodded in confirmation.

"Well, if it is your father's wish, may—may God prosper you in it, myboy!" she said, going over to Gjert and stroking his forehead.

"So—now you may take your joiner's bench into the room again, Henrik;you can talk with Gjert in there—that is to say, if he will condescendnow to answer a common man like you—tell him you will be a merchantcaptain, and earn as much as two such fellows in uniform. Mother and Ican then enjoy a little peace from you here in the kitchen."

When they were alone, Elizabeth asked—

"But how has it all happened, Salvé?"

"Well, you see, I had taken the idea into my head about Gjert that heshould become something a little better than his father had been, and soI went up to the Master, to Beck, and asked what I must do to push thething. Yes; and I spoke to young Fru Beck too."

"Salvé! did you go to Beck?"

"Yes, I did—the boy must be pushed; and into the bargain, I half beggedhis pardon for the way I used to turn the rough edge of my tongue onhim—and so we were reconciled. He is a fine old fellow in reality, andI have wronged him. He said he had never forgotten that I had saved theJuno for him, and that he had intended to put me one day in command ofher. While we were talking, young Fru Beck came in, and when she heardwhat we were speaking about, she showed the greatest interest at once.You were an old friend of hers, she said; and she thought we might getGjert into the Institute there free, when he had been up for anexamination in the summer. She knew some of the officials who would beable to get it done; and if the Master wrote," he continued, a littleconsciously, "that I was neither more nor less than a remarkable pilotwho ought to be salaried by the State, the thing would be as good asdone. So the Master wrote the application for me there and then."

"See that!" cried Elizabeth.

"Ay, and he wrote a testimonial from himself underneath. I hadn't anidea that I was such a fine fellow," he laughed.

"You see," she cried, looking at him proudly, "it comes at last. Heacknowledges it now."

"Well, if we don't manage the thing that way, Salvé Kristiansen will beable nevertheless to work it out of his own pocket—for worked it shallbe, mind you. It won't be done for nothing; but we have something in thesavings bank, and the rest will come right enough.

"It will be just as well that I should have something to drive me out ofthe house occasionally, for otherwise I should get too fond both of itand of you, Elizabeth," he said, and drew her towards him. "I must havea little rain and storm now and again—it's my nature, you know. And theMaster must not be made to have written lies about me."

His wife looked at him. A glow of deep feeling overspread her handsomefeatures.

"How happy we have become, Salvé!" she exclaimed. "If it could only havebeen like this from the very beginning!"

"I have thought over that, Elizabeth," he said, seriously. "There hasbeen One at the helm who is cleverer than I, for there was a deal of badstuff to be knocked out of me after I returned from that foreign life.You, poor woman, were the chief sufferer by it, I am afraid."

"And it was I, Salvé, who was the chief cause of it all," she replied.