Authors: Jules Verne
As for Hulda, her anxiety on the subject was no less serious, for
fashions are pitiless, and give, besides, not a little trouble in the
selection of their wedding-toilet.
Hulda would now be obliged to abandon the long plaits tied with bright
ribbons, which had heretofore hung from under her coquettish cap, the
broad belt with fancy buckles that kept her apron in place upon
her scarlet skirt, the girdle to which were appended several small
embroidered leather cases containing a silver tea-spoon, knife, fork,
needle-case and scissors—articles which a woman makes constant use of
in the household.
No, on the fast approaching day of the nuptials, Hulda's hair would be
allowed to float down upon her shoulders, and it was so abundant
that it would not be necessary for her to have recourse to the jute
switches used by Norwegian girls less favored by nature. Indeed,
for her clothing, as well as for her ornaments, Hulda would only be
obliged to resort to her mother's big chest. In fact, these articles
of clothing are transmitted from marriage to marriage through all
the different generations of the same family. So one sees reappearing
again and again upon the scene the bodice embroidered in gold, the
velvet sash, the skirt of striped silk, the gold chain for the neck,
and the crown—the famous Scandinavian crown—carefully preserved in
the most secure of all the chests, and made of pasteboard covered
with embossed gilt paper, and studded with stars, or garlanded with
leaves—that takes the place of the wreath of orange-blossoms worn by
brides in other European countries.
In this case the crowned betrothed, as the bride is styled, would
certainly do honor to her husband; and he would be worthy of her in
his gay wedding suit: a short jacket trimmed with silver buttons,
silk-embroidered waistcoat, tight breeches fastened at the knee with a
bunch of bright ribbons, a soft felt hat, yellow top-boots, and in
his belt the Scandinavian knife—the dolknife—with which the true
Norwegian is always provided.
Consequently, there was plenty to occupy the attention of the young
ladies for some time to come. Two or three weeks would barely suffice
if they wished to have everything in readiness before Ole's return;
but even if Ole should arrive sooner than he expected, and Hulda
should not be quite ready, she would not be inconsolable, nor would
he.
The last weeks of April and the first weeks of May were devoted
to these matters. Joel assumed charge of the invitations, taking
advantage of the fact that his vocation of guide gave him considerable
leisure at this season of the year. One would have supposed that he
had a large number of friends in Bamble, for he went there very often.
He had already written to Help Bros., inviting them to attend his
sister's wedding, and in accordance with his prediction, these worthy
shipowners had promptly accepted the invitation.
The fifteenth of May came, and any day now they might expect Ole to
alight from his kariol, throw open the door, and shout in his hearty,
cheerful voice:
"It is I! Here I am!"
A little patience was all that was needed now, for everything was in
readiness, and Siegfrid needed only a word to appear before them in
all her splendor.
The 16th and 17th passed, and still no Ole, nor did the postman bring
any letter from Newfoundland.
"There is no cause for anxiety, little sister," Joel said, again and
again. "A sailing-vessel is always subject to delays. It is a long
way from St. Pierre-Miquelon to Bergen. How I wish the 'Viking' were
a steamer and I the engine. How I would drive along against wind and
tide, even if I should burst my boiler on coming into port."
He said all this because he saw very plainly that Hulda's uneasiness
was increasing from day to day.
Just at this time, too, the weather was very bad in the Telemark.
Violent gales swept the high table-lands, and these winds, which blew
from the west, came from America.
"They ought to have hastened the arrival of the 'Viking,'" the young
girl repeated again and again.
"Yes, little sister," replied Joel; "but they are so strong that they
may have hindered its progress, and compelled it to face the gale.
People can't always do as they like upon the sea."
"So you are not uneasy, Joel?"
"No, Hulda, no. It is annoying, of course, but these delays are very
common. No; I am not uneasy, for there is really not the slightest
cause for anxiety."
On the 19th a traveler arrived at the inn, and asked for a guide to
conduct him over the mountains to the Hardanger, and though Joel did
not like the idea of leaving Hulda, he could not refuse his services.
He would only be absent forty-eight hours at the longest, and he felt
confident that he should find Ole at Dal on his return, though, to
tell the truth, the kind-hearted youth was beginning to feel very
uneasy. Still, he started off early the next morning, though with a
heavy heart, we must admit.
On the following day, at precisely one o'clock, a loud rap resounded
at the door of the inn.
"It is Ole!" cried Hulda.
She ran to the door.
There, in a kariol, sat a man enveloped in a traveling-cloak, a man
whose face was unknown to her.
"Is this Dame Hansen's inn?" he asked.
"Yes, sir," answered Hulda.
"Is Dame Hansen at home?"
"No; but she will soon return, and if you wish to speak to her—"
"I do not. There is nothing I want to say to her."
"Would you like a room?"
"Yes; the best in the house."
"Shall we prepare dinner for you?"
"As soon as possible, and see to it that everything is of the very
best quality."
These remarks were exchanged between Hulda and the traveler before the
latter had alighted from the kariol, in which he had journeyed to
the heart of the Telemark across the forests, lakes, and valleys of
Central Norway.
Every one who has visited Scandinavia is familiar with the kariol,
the means of locomotion so dear to the hearts of her people. Two long
shafts, between which trots a horse wearing a square wooden collar,
painted yellow and striped with black, and guided with a simple rope
passed, not through his mouth, but around his nose, two large,
slender wheels, whose springless axle supports a small gay-colored,
shell-shaped wagon-body, scarcely large enough to hold one person—no
covering, no dash-board, no step—but behind, a board upon which the
skydskarl
perches himself. The whole vehicle strongly reminds one of
an enormous spider between two huge cobwebs represented by the wheels
of the vehicle.
At a sign from the traveler the
skydskarl
sprung to the horse's
head, and the stranger rose, straightened himself out, and finally
alighted, though not without some difficulty, judging from two or
three muttered curses.
"Will they put my kariol under shelter?" he asked, curtly, pausing
upon the threshold.
"Yes, sir," replied Hulda.
"And find my horse?"
"I will have him put in the stable immediately."
"Have him well cared for."
"Certainly, sir. May I ask if you intend to remain in Dal several
days?"
"I don't know yet."
The kariol and horse were taken to a small barn built under the
shelter of some trees at the foot of the mountain. It was the only
stable connected with the inn, but it sufficed for the requirements of
its guests.
In a few moments the traveler was duly installed in the best chamber,
where, after removing his cloak, he proceeded to warm himself before
the fire he had ordered lighted. In the meantime, Hulda, to satisfy
this exacting guest, bade the
piga
(a sturdy peasant-girl, who
helped in the kitchen, and did the rough work of the inn during the
summer) prepare the best dinner possible.
A strong, hardy man was this new-comer, though he had already passed
his sixtieth year. Thin, slightly round-shouldered, of medium stature,
with an angular head, smoothly shaven face, thin, pointed nose, small
eyes that looked you through and through from behind large spectacles,
a forehead generally contracted by a frown, lips too thin for a
pleasant word ever to escape them, and long, crooked fingers, he was
the very personification of an avaricious usurer or miser, and Hulda
felt a presentiment that this stranger would bring no good fortune to
Dame Hansen's house.
He was a Norwegian unquestionably, but one of the very worst type.
His traveling costume consisted of a broad-brimmed, low-crowned hat,
a snuff-colored suit, the breeches fastened at the knee with a leather
strap, and over all a large brown cloak, lined with sheep-skin to
protect its wearer from the chilly night air.
Hulda did not ask him his name, but she would soon learn it, as he
would have to enter it upon the inn register.
Just then Dame Hansen returned, and her daughter announced the arrival
of a guest who demanded the best room and the best food that the inn
afforded, but who vouchsafed no information in regard to the probable
length of his stay.
"And he did not give his name?" asked Dame Hansen.
"No, mother."
"Nor say whence he came?"
"No."
"If he is not a tourist, what can have brought him to Dal?" said Dame
Hansen to herself rather than to her daughter, and in a tone that
indicated some uneasiness.
But Hulda could not answer this question, as the new-comer had
acquainted her with none of his plans.
About an hour after his arrival the man came out into the main hall,
from which his door opened, but seeing Dame Hansen sitting there, he
paused upon the threshold.
Evidently he was as much of a stranger to his hostess as his hostess
was to him; but he finally walked toward her, and after a long look at
her from over his spectacles:
"You are Dame Hansen, I suppose?" he said, without even touching the
hat he had not yet removed from his head.
"Yes, sir."
In the presence of this man the widow, strange to say, experienced,
like her daughter, an uneasiness for which she could not account, but
which her guest must have noticed.
"So you are really Dame Hansen, of Dal?" he continued.
"Certainly, sir. Have you anything particular to say to me?"
"Nothing; I only wished to make your acquaintance. Am I not your
guest? And now I should like you to see that I have my dinner as soon
as possible."
"Your dinner is ready," interposed Hulda, "and if you will step into
the dining-room—"
"I will."
As he spoke, the stranger directed his steps toward the door
indicated, and a moment afterward he was seated near the window in
front of a small, neatly spread table.
The dinner was certainly good. The most fastidious traveler could not
have found fault with it; nevertheless, this ill-tempered individual
was not sparing in his signs and words of dissatisfaction—especially
signs, for he did not appear to be very loquacious. One could hardly
help wondering whether this fault-finding was due to a poor digestion
or a bad temper. The soup of cherries and gooseberries did not suit
him, though it was excellent, and he scarcely tasted his salmon
and salt-herring. The cold ham, broiled chicken and nicely seasoned
vegetables did not seem to please him, and his bottle of claret and
his half bottle of champagne seemed to be equally unsatisfactory,
though they came from the best cellars in France; and when the repast
was concluded the guest had not even a "
tack for mad
" for his
hostess.
After dinner the old curmudgeon lighted his pipe and went out for a
walk along the river bank.
On reaching the stream he turned and fixed his eyes upon the inn. He
seemed to be studying it under all its varied aspects, as if trying to
form a correct estimate of its value.
He counted every door and window, and finally on his return to the
inn he stuck his knife into the horizontal beams at its base, as if to
test the quality of the wood and its state of preservation. Could
it be that he was trying to find out how much Dame Hansen's inn was
really worth? Did he aspire to become the owner of it, though it was
not for sale? All this was certainly very strange, especially as
he afterward turned his attention to the little yard, the trees and
shrubs of which he counted carefully, and finally measured both sides
of the inclosure with regular strides, after which the movement of his
pencil over a page of his memorandum-book seemed to indicate that he
was multiplying one by the other.
All the while Dame Hansen and her daughter were watching him from one
of the windows of the inn. What strange creature was this, and what
could be the object of his visit? It was greatly to be regretted that
all this took place during Joel's absence, especially as the eccentric
individual was going to spend the night at the inn.
"What if he is a madman?" said Hulda.
"A madman? no," replied Dame Hansen. "But he is a very eccentric
person, to say the least."
"It is always unpleasant to be ignorant of the name of the person you
are entertaining," remarked the young girl.
"Before he re-enters the house, Hulda, be sure that you carry the
register into his room. Perhaps he will conclude to write his name in
it."
"Yes, mother."
Just at dusk a fine rain began to fall, so the stranger returned to
the inn. He asked for a small glass of brandy, then without saying
a word, or even bidding any one good-night, he took his wooden
candlestick, and entering his room bolted the door behind him, and
nothing further was heard from him that night.
The
skydskarl
had taken refuge in the barn, where he was already
sound asleep in company with the sorrel horse.
Dame Hansen and her daughter rose with the sun the next morning, but
no sound came from the room of their guest, who was probably still
sleeping. A little after nine o'clock he made his appearance even more
glum and ill-tempered than the evening before, complaining that his
bed had been hard, and that the noise in the house had kept, him
awake; then he opened the door and looked out at the sky.