Part 34 (1/2)

Peter, then, had taken his degree accordingly, and endeavoured conscientiously to suit himself as far as possible to the clerical role for which he was cast in life; how he succeeded we shall presently see.

His quiet and sober dignity of manner gained him the entry to the Sukkestads' house, where he was soon a frequent guest; not that he found himself particularly attracted by Sukkestad and his wife, or their severely earnest circle of friends. The attraction, in fact, was Andrea, the daughter of the house and only child, for whom he entertained the tenderest feeling. Andrea was a buxom, pink-and-white beauty of eighteen summers. Her light blue eyes and little stumpy nose were quite charming in their way, while the plait of long, fair hair over the shoulders gave her an air of childish innocence.

In a word, Peter Oiland was desperately in love, while Andrea, who had never before been the object of such attentions, began to lie awake at nights wondering whether he ”really meant it.” The solution, however, came quite naturally.

Andrea played the piano, and sang touching little songs of the sentimental type, such as ”When my eyes are closing,” ”The Last Rose of Summer,” or ”The Deserted Cottage”--which transported Peter Oiland to the eighth heaven at least. One evening, when she had finished one of her usual turns, he took her hand and thanked her warmly, pressing it also quite perceptibly--and Andrea, well, she somehow managed to press his quite perceptibly in return--by accident, of course. And then these hand-clasps were repeated, nay, became a regular thing, to such an extent that the pair would press each other's hands when seated on the sofa with Mamma Sukkestad between them. That good lady, however, did not notice, or affected not to notice, these evidences of tender pa.s.sion taking place behind her back.

Thanks to his intimacy with Sukkestad, and also to his own reputation as a sober and earnest man, Peter Oiland was chosen, after only a couple of months' residence in the place, as one of the two representatives of the town to attend the mission meeting at Stavanger. Sukkestad himself was the other.

On the evening before their departure, he was invited to a party at the Sukkestads', together with the members of the Women's Union.

Peter Oiland had already succeeded in making himself a special favourite with Mrs. Sukkestad, and was on very confidential terms with her; relations, indeed, became quite intimate, when Andrea confided the secret of their mutual feelings to her mother.

After supper, preserved fruit and pastry were handed round, which Peter Oiland inwardly considered a somewhat insipid form of entertainment. He had often felt the lack of a gla.s.s of grog on his visits to the house, and this evening he deftly turned the conversation with Mrs. Sukkestad to the subject of ”colds,” from which he declared himself to be suffering considerably just lately.

Mrs. Sukkestad recommended hot turpentine bandages on the chest and barley water internally. Oiland, however, hinted that the only thing he had ever known to do him any good was egg punch. Mrs. Sukkestad, who was one of those stout little homely persons always anxious to help, and with a fine store of household recipes ever available, set to work at once to find some means of getting him his favourite medicine, while Peter coughed distressingly, and screwed up his eyes behind his gla.s.ses.

”I tell you what,” whispered Mrs. Sukkestad at last. ”Sukkestad is an abstainer, you know, so we've never anything in the way of spirits in the house as a rule. But I've half a bottle of brandy out in the pantry that I got last spring when I was troubled with the toothache; I was going to use it for cleaning the windows, really, but if you think it would do your cold any good, I'd be only too pleased.”

”Thanks ever so much, it's awfully good of you,” said Peter Oiland hoa.r.s.ely.

”Well, then, be sure you don't let anyone know what it is. I'll put it in one of the decanters, and say it's gooseberry wine.”

”Yes, yes, of course; I understand.”

And, shortly after, Peter Oiland was comfortably seated in a corner with a lovely big gla.s.s of grog, enjoying himself thoroughly, and, to complete his satisfaction, Andrea sang:

”Thou art my one and only thought, My one and only love....”

Peter drank deep of the joy of life, and eke of grog, and Andrea seemed more charming than ever.

Later in the evening he held forth to the ladies--among whom, as above mentioned, were all the members of the Women's Union--about the blacks of the South Sea Islands, and gave so lurid a description of the state of things there prevailing as to make his audience fairly shudder.

”And would you believe it, on one of the islands in the Pacific, a place called Kolamukka, belonging to Queen Rabagadale, they eat roast baby just as we do sucking pig, the only difference being that they don't serve them up with lemons in their mouths.”

Sukkestad thought this was going rather too far, and broke in, ”Oh, come now, Oiland; you're exaggerating, I'm sure. Thank goodness, all the poor heathens are not cannibals.”

”Have to quote the worst examples, to make it properly interesting,”

said Oiland, which dictum was supported by Mrs. Writher, who declared that one could not paint these things too darkly; it was hard enough as it was to make people realise the dreadful state of those benighted creatures.

When the guests had left, Mrs. Sukkestad felt some qualms of conscience at the thought of having ”served intoxicating liquors” in her house. She lay awake for hours, debating with herself whether she ought to confess at once to her husband. The excuse about having a cold was--well, rather poor after all. Suppose Oiland had a weakness, a leaning towards drink, and she had led him astray! His cough, too, had vanished so quickly, it was suspicious. However, she decided to say nothing for the present.

It was a fine, bright, sunny day when Sukkestad and Peter Oiland, as delegates from Strandvik to the meeting at Stavanger, stepped on board the coasting steamer, which was already half full of delegates with white neckerchiefs and broad-brimmed felt hats.

The smoke-room was thick with the fumes of cheap tobacco and a hum of quiet talk from decent folk in black Sunday coats and well-polished leg boots. A swarthy little commercial traveller, with a bright red tie and waxed moustache, sat squeezed up in a corner puffing at a ”special” cigar with a coloured waistband.

Peter Oiland gave a formal greeting to the company a.s.sembled as he entered; those nearest politely made way for him.

”It's a hard life, teaching,” observed a stout little man with a florid, clean-shaven face and glistening black hair brushed forward over his ears. ”Tells on the nerves.”

”You find it so?” put in Peter Oiland. ”Well, now, it all depends on how you take it--as the young man said when he took a kiss in the dark.”