Contrary To His Intention, Torpander Did Not Travel Home To Sweden. He
Put Off His Departure From Time To Time. _Her_ Grave Never Seemed Pretty
Enough, And He Never Felt Perfectly Certain That It Would Be Kept
Properly In Order. He Thus Remained Where He Was, And At Last Moved Over
To Old Anders Begmand'S Cottage. The Old Man'S Head Had Become Somewhat
Affected. He Received His Week'S Pay Every Saturday, Without, However,
Doing Any Work To Earn It. And Now Torpander Grew To Be Quite A Fixture
In The Cottage, And The Two Would Sit For Many A Winter'S Evening Over
The Fire, Repeating To Each Other The Same Stories, Which Never Varied
Year After Year, About Her Who Had Been, And Still Continued For Both,
The Very Sunshine Of Their Lives.
Uncle Richard Soon Gave Up The Lighthouse At Bratvold, And He And Mrs.
Garman Shared Sandsgaard Between Them. Downstairs The Lady Went About In
Her Wheel-Chair, And She Had Had All The Thresholds Of The Doors
Removed, So That She Might Be Able To Have Herself Rolled Into The
Kitchen.
Chapter 24 Pg 157
Upstairs Uncle Richard Continued His Ceaseless Wanderings, In and Out,
To And Fro, Just As He Had Begun On The Day After His Brother'S Death.
Once Only He Had Had Don Juan Saddled; But When He Was Brought Round To
The Door, The Old Gentleman, Thought He Was Too Fresh For Him. He Put
His Hand Before His Eyes, And Had Don Juan Taken Back Again, To The
Stable.
Summer And Winter, Day After Day, The Sound Of His Footfall Overhead
Never Ceased. A Long Strip Of Soft Carpet Had Been Put Down The Whole
Length Of The House, Partly For Warmth, And Partly To Deaden The Sound
Of His Step.
In Winter He Wore A Long Coat Lined With Fur, A Fur Cap, And A Pair Of
Deerskin Gloves; And There Were Some People Who Confidently Maintained
That He Carried An Open Umbrella When The Weather Was Wet. In The Little
Room On The North Side, There Was A Cupboard In Which A Bottle Of
Burgundy Was Always Kept Standing. When The Old Gentleman Got To This
Point He Would Pause, Drink A Glass Of The Wine, And Look Thoughtfully
In The Large Mirror. He Then Shook His Head And Continued His
Wanderings.
No Change Took Place In Miss Cordsen. The Well-Starched Cap-Strings And
The Odour Of Dry Lavender Still Followed Her Wherever She Went; While
All The Secrets Of The Family Lay Carefully Preserved, Together With Her
Own, To Both Of Which The Closely Pressed Mouth, With Its Innumerable
Wrinkles, Formed A Lock Of The Safest Description.
Chapter 25 Pg 157
Thus Passed Six Years. According To Martens'S Prediction, Dean Sparre
Had Been Made A Bishop. His Predecessor In Office Had Been A Strict And
Haughty Prelate, And There Was, Therefore, No Little Disturbance In The
Camp When He Departed. But From The Moment Dean Sparre Mounted The
Vacant Seat, All Friction Ceased, And Everything Went On Evenly And
Smoothly. It Was Like Covering The Hammers Of An Old Piano With New
Felt. The Hitherto Sharp Tone Gives Place To A Soft And Agreeable Sound;
And After Dean Sparre'S Patent Felt Had Been Introduced Into The
Mechanism, It All Worked Silently And Noiselessly, And Gave The Greatest
Pleasure To All Parties Concerned.
The Bishop Did Not Forget His Young Friend, Inspector Johnsen, Of Whom
He Had Always Had Such "Good Hopes." He Obtained For Johnsen A
Chaplaincy In His Cathedral Town; And Some People Were So Mischievous As
To Assert That The Bishop'S "Good Hopes" Were Now Fulfilled, For Pastor
Johnsen Was Shortly After Engaged To Miss Barbara Sparre.
A Great Change Had Taken Place In The _Ci-Devant_ School Inspector. When
The Turning-Point Was Once Reached, He Set To Work In His New Line In
Chapter 25 Pg 158
Real Earnest, As Was Only To Be Expected From One Of His Energetic
Character. He Never Dabbled Any More In advanced Philosophy, And Had But
Little To Do With Grand Society; On The Contrary, He Grew To Be A
Clergyman To Whom The Women Were Particularly Attracted. His Sermons
Were Always Severe, Very Severe; And Those Who Cared To Listen Closely,
Might Remark That He Never Repeated The Prayer For The Arms Of The
Country By Land And By Sea.
Down At Mrs. Worse'S Shop, In The Dark Corner Of The Lane, Trade Went On
Regularly And Well. Little Pitter Nilken Had Arrived At That Stage Of
Shriveldom, At Which Both Fruits And People Cannot Hold Out Much Longer
Without A Change. He Still Managed To Swing Himself Over The Counter As
Lightly As A Cork When The Enemy Became Too Troublesome, And The
Redoubtable Iron Ruler Had Lost None Of Its Gruesome Terrors.
Mrs. Worse, On The Contrary, Had Become Rather Stout In The Course Of
Years. Her Legs Would No Longer "Balance" Her Properly, As She Said. But
Still She Refused To Buy A Carriage Until All Had "Come Right," Which
She Thought Could Not Be Long Now.
When All Had Come Right! It Required A Faith As Blind As Mrs. Worse'S To
Reckon On Such A Possibility. Rachel Had Now Been Six Years In Paris
Without Saying A Word About Coming Home. What Her Occupation There
Really Was, Jacob Worse Could Never Discover. Each Time He Sent Her
Money--And It Was Marvellous How Much She Used--He Wrote Her A Few
Lines. She Always Answered Briefly And Reservedly. Through His Friend
Mr. Barnett He Did Not Learn Anything Explicit. He Only Knew That Rachel
Was Still Living In The House, And That They Were Much Attached To Her.
Mrs. Barnett'S _Salon_ Was Quite A Place Of Assembly For The American
Colony, Among Which Were Many Rich And Accomplished Men. Any Day Might
Bring The Intelligence Of Her Approaching Marriage.
Worse Was In The Habit Of Reading The Papers Every Morning As They Sat
At Breakfast In His Mother'S Room. One Day Mrs. Worse, Who Usually
Occupied Herself Half The Morning With Her Paper, Read Out To Her Son
That Pastor Martens Had Been Nominated As Clergyman In The Town.
"Just Fancy! So They Are Coming Westward Again!" Ejaculated Mrs. Worse.
"I Should Like To Know How Little Madeleine Has Got On In Married Life,"
Sighed The Old Woman, Who Knew But Too Well The Uncertainty Which
Marriage Brings With It. The News Awoke Many Painful Recollections In
Worse'S Breast, And He Paced Up And Down In His Office For
