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Page 25
Tom Robson made signs to the others to leave him alone. Begmand put his
pipe into his waistcoat pocket, got up, and went into the little room by
the kitchen, where he slept. The unwonted drink had roused again the
fire of his youth, and never had he felt his helplessness so keenly as
he did that evening.
The others still sat drinking till there was no more, and the lamp began
to grow dim as the oil gave out. Then they staggered off; Woodlouse away
through West End, while Tom clambered up a steep path that led over the
hill at the back of Begmand's cottage. He lived with a widow in a small
house near the farm buildings of Sandsgaard.
Torpander went with Robson, because he was afraid to go through West End
alone, and because he wanted to have a last glance at Marianne's window,
which looked on to the hillside.
Martin shut the door after them, and managed to lift up the lid of a
sort of locker in which he was going to sleep. He did not see that there
were some empty bottles on the locker, and they rolled down on the
floor, and one of them was broken against the spittoon. The lid slipped
out of his hand, and, without trying to undress, he let himself fall
just as he was into the bedclothes.
The last remaining drop of oil in the lamp was now gone, and the last
blue flame flickered up through the chimney and was quenched. Then
followed a thick grey smoke, which came curling up from the still
glowing wick, and wreathed itself in graceful spirals through the glass
and glided out into the room, until it looked like a maze of fairy
threads in the faint light from the window.
Nothing was heard but the sound of heavy breathing. The old man's
respiration was short and broken, while Martin, after turning over a few
times, lay quiet, and at length began to snore. Before long he started
up again uneasily, heated as he was by drink and passion.
Still a little longer smouldered the red glow of the wick, while the
smoke wreathed up thinner and thinner through the glass and spread
itself in the darkness.
CHAPTER VII.
Fanny Garman had from the first shown herself particularly well disposed
towards Madeleine, and had more than once invited her to come and pay
her a visit in the town. Nothing had hitherto come of the invitation,
for even Madeleine, unversed as she was in the ways of society, could
see that nothing more was meant than a compliment.
One Sunday, however, Madeleine was standing before the looking-glass,
only partially dressed, and with her thick dark hair hanging in curls
over her shoulders. Fanny happened to pass, and caught sight of her
reflection by the side of Madeleine's. She stopped and noticed the
contrast. The dark hair and slightly gipsy complexion of her cousin set
off her own fair skin and light hair most admirably. It is true that
Madeleine was taller, and her figure rather more stately, but the face
itself had only very slight pretensions to beauty. Fanny closely
observed the effect as she helped Madeleine to arrange her hair, and
when she had finished her observations she threw her arm round
Madeleine's waist, and they left the room together.
"Listen now, my dearest Madeleine," began she, arching her eyebrows. "I
am really very much annoyed with you, for never coming down to see us in
the town. As a punishment, I shall take you with me this afternoon.
Morten can sit on the box."
Madeleine looked into the small and delicate face, and could not help
thinking how lovely it was. The large blue eyes looked so charmingly out
through their lashes; the pose of the head was so elegant; while round
the mouth played so many changing expressions, which seemed to rivet the
attention when she was speaking.
"What are you staring at?" asked Fanny, mischievously.
"You really are too pretty," answered Madeleine, with sincerity.
"Well, that's a rustic compliment," laughed her cousin, turning colour a
little, but looking still more charming.
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