United States or Namibia ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Very well, then; since there would be no address the funeral would take place on Saturday, between twelve and two. Outside Begmand's cottage a group of young seafaring men were assembling. There were a few relations from the town, and some of Marianne's acquaintances, such as Tom Robson, Torpander, and Woodlouse.
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.
They then clambered up the steep path at the back of Begmand's house, Tom Robson leading, and as he was helping himself with his hands up the steepest places, he chanced to get hold of a loose stone, which, in pure drunken wantonness, he threw at Marianne's window, where he happened to see a light.
The circuitous course he was thus driven to follow in his courtship, was not altogether agreeable to the Swede, and the drinking bouts at Begmand's cottage, in which he was obliged to take part in order to get a glimpse of his sweetheart, he found particularly distasteful. At first Marianne was greatly annoyed by the attentions of the journeyman printer.
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.
In the yard close to the house at Sandsgaard, Martin met Pastor Martens, who was on his way from the town, dressed in cassock and ruff. Martin touched his cap. "Will you come and see my sister, sir? She is at the point of death." "Who is your sister?" asked the pastor. "Marianne, sir; Anders Begmand's granddaughter."
Only one thing, the ship's name, that he was so anxious to know, still remained a secret, which Tom would not betray. And Tom himself it was who, in accordance with the Consul's orders, had spiked on the name-board when it was nearly dark. The company at Anders Begmand's had been busy that evening, especially Tom Robson, and by the time it was about ten o'clock he was pretty well tipsy.
They paid no rent, and there was no interference on the part of the firm with the "West End," which was the name by which the little row of cottages was generally known amongst the workpeople. Anders Begmand's house was both the last and the smallest, but now that he was alone with his two grandchildren, Marianne and Martin, he did not require much room.
The sun was shining over the bay of Sandsgaard, where the new ship now lay securely moored with hawsers both ahead and astern. The sounds of activity from West End could be heard far out into the fjord. In Begmand's cottage Marianne lay raving in delirium, and the neighbour who attended her said she had the fever.
Word Of The Day