Part 2 (1/2)

”My mistake. Dark, I should have said. Poor and dark.... Well, my friend, this n.o.ble fatherly soul, who a moment ago entered upon us like a vision from another world--a visitor from the lower regions, so to speak (Hear!)--him we acclaim, by all the G.o.ds of ancient myth, by the deities of the upper and the nether world--steady, boys--not to speak of this. And you, my fortunate young friend, whose lot it is to claim this exalted soul by the worthy name of father, rejoice with me at his presence among us in this hour. Do not your hearts beat high with thankfulness to the providence that has spared him to you so long? What says the poet (now what does he say, I wonder? Let me see). 'My father was a----' something or other. Anyhow, never mind.

To come to the point, we, er--raise our gla.s.ses now in honour of this revered paterfamilias whose toil and thingummy in this materialistic world have crowned the work of his accomplished children. _Skaal!_”

The speech was received with general acclamation.

Holm was taken by surprise, and hardly knew what to say. He could hardly open the campaign at such a moment with a sermon; mechanically he took the gla.s.s offered him. But hardly had he touched it with his lips than he asked in astonishment:

”When--where on earth did you get hold of that Madeira? Let me look at the bottle. I thought as much. Tar and feather me, if they haven't gone and snaffled my '52 Madeira! Six bottles that I'd been keeping for my jubilee in the business--all gone, I suppose. Nice children, I must say!”

He sat down in an arm-chair, fanning himself with a handkerchief.

”These golden drops from the cellars of our revered friend and patron----” began Frantz sententiously.

”Oh, stop that nonsense, do,” growled Holm. And, s.n.a.t.c.hing up a bottle of the old Madeira, he took it into the dining-room and hid it behind the sofa.

”Dearest, darling papa, you're not going to be bad-tempered now, are you?” whispered Marie, throwing her arms around his neck.

”I'm not bad-tempered--I'm angry.”

”Oh, but you mustn't. Why, what is there to be angry about?”

Holm was dumbfounded. Nothing to be angry about indeed. He ought perhaps to say thank you to these young rascals for allowing him to stay up with them?

”Shall I sing to you, papa?”

”Sing! no, thank you. I'd rather not.”

”But what's the matter? What's it all about?”

”What's the matter--good heavens, why, my '52 Madeira, isn't that enough?”

”Oh, is that all? I'm sure it couldn't have been put to better use.

You ought to have heard Frantz Pettersen making up things on the spur of the moment; it was simply lovely.”

She had clambered up on his knee, with her arms round his neck; the others were still in the drawing-room.

”Lovely, was it, little one?” said Holm in a somewhat gentler voice.

”Yes, papa--oh, I don't know when I've enjoyed myself so much as this evening. And only fancy, Hilmar Strom, the composer--there, you can see, the tall thin man in gla.s.ses--he said I had a beautiful voice--beautiful!”

”Don't you believe it, my child.”

”What--when a great artist like that says so? Oh, I was so happy--and now you come and....” She stood up and put her handkerchief to her eyes. Just then William came in.

”Hullo, what's the matter? What are you crying for?”

”Papa--papa says I'm not to believe what Hilmar Strom said--that I'd a beautiful voice. Ugh--it's always like that at home--it's _miserable_.” She leaned over in a corner of the sofa, hiding her face in her hands.

”Yes, you're right. Oh, we shall have pleasant memories of home to go out into the world with.” And William stalked off in dudgeon.

Holm sat there like a criminal, at a loss what to make of it all. Oh, these young folk! They always seemed to manage to turn the tables on him somehow. He couldn't even get properly angry now.