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Oh if she only had somebody to go to now, a friend not any of her "friends" from the clique; she was through with them! She had been one of them a year and a day; she had listened to their words and she had seen their deeds. How had she been able to endure them? Thank God, she was done with them forever. Could she go to Ole Henriksen and ask help from him? No, no; she couldn't do that.
It was two years ago, when it was known that the Tidemand firm had suffered heavy losses in a fish exportation. The yacht lay anchored just outside the Henriksen warehouse and attracted much attention because of its beautiful lines. The masthead was gilded. Tidemand said: "This is the most beautiful little dream I have ever seen, upon my word!"
And slowly he pulled out a little drawer in his desk. They found Ole Henriksen dead in the morning; he had shot himself. The lamp was burning on the desk; a few sealed letters were lying on the blotter; he himself lay stretched on the floor. In the letter to Tidemand he had asked to be forgiven because he could not come for the last time and thank him for his friendship.
He went over and locked the office door, and read the letter once more. It was brief and to the point; it could not be misunderstood; she gave him back his "freedom." And there was the ring, wrapped in tissue-paper. No, he could hardly be uncertain as to the meaning of that letter. And Ole Henriksen drifted back and forth in his office for several hours.
And he, Ole Henriksen, had even been afraid that Aagot some day might chance to see the poet's account in his books. He had finally put away the ledger, entirely out of regard for the great man's feelings. It was a most suitable partnership; they were worthy of each other. The poet had something to write about now, a splendid subject!
"Good Lord you know I am not the least interested in your trading! There is only one thing I want to discuss with you, Ole Henriksen; have you got a drink of brandy?" The two men leave the office and pass through the store down into the cellar. Ole Henriksen pulls a cork hurriedly; his father is expected any moment, and for this reason he is in haste.
But you are going to the country, to the pine woods now; you will get well again," says Mrs. Hanka, and feels like a mother. Milde chimes in: "Of course you will. And think of us when you are in your kingdom." Ole Henriksen had remained quietly in his chair; he said little and smoked his cigar.
There was the electric street-car proposition, the new theatre, the proposed pulp-mills in Vardal, the whale-oil factories in Henningsvaer everything had to have the business men's stamp of approval. Both Tidemand and Ole Henriksen became share-owners in everything as a matter of course. "My father should have known this!" Tidemand would often say when he gave his signature.
He stood immovable where he was until she had disappeared. Ole Henriksen returned a week later. He had become uneasy. He had telegraphed to Aagot again and again, but could get no reply. He finished up his business in a hurry and returned.
He was at his desk early and late; papers, bills, notes, and certificates fluttered around him, and his energy and skill brought order out of confusion as the days went by. Ole Henriksen had supported him on demand; he had paid cash for the country estate and had relieved him of several outstanding obligations.
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