Ole Henriksen received a telegram which hastened his departure for London. For twenty-four hours he worked like a slave to get through—wrote and arranged, called at the banks, instructed his clerks, gave orders to his chief assistant, who was to be in charge during his absence. The Hull steamer was loading; it was to sail in a couple of hours. Ole Henriksen did not have any too much time.

Aagot went with him from place to place, sad and faithful. She was labouring under suppressed emotion. She did not say a word so as not to disturb him, but she looked at him all the time with moist eyes. They had arranged that she should go home the next morning on the first train.

Old Henriksen shuffled back and forth, quiet and silent; he knew that his son needed to hurry. Every once in a while a man would come up from the dock with reports from the steamer; now there was only a shipment of whale-oil to load, then she would start. It would take about three-quarters of an hour. At last Ole was ready to say farewell. Aagot only had to put on her wraps; she would stay with him to the last.

"What are you thinking of, Aagot?"

"Oh, nothing. But I wish you were well back again, Ole."

"Silly little girl! I am only going to London," he said, forcing a gaiety he did not feel. "Don't you worry! I shall be back in no time." He put his arm around her waist and caressed her; he gave her the usual pet names: Little Mistress, dear little Mistress! A whistle sounded; Ole glanced at his watch; he had fifteen minutes left. He had to see Tidemand a moment.

As soon as he entered Tidemand's office he said: "I am going to London. I want you to come over occasionally and give the old man a lift. Won't you?"

"Certainly," said Tidemand. "Are you not going to sit down, Miss Aagot?
For you are not departing, I hope?"

"Yes, to-morrow," answered Aagot.

Ole happened to think of the last quotations. Rye was going up again. He congratulated his friend warmly.

Yes, prices were better; the Russian crops hadn't quite come up to expectations; the rise was not large, but it meant a great deal to Tidemand with his enormous stores.

"Yes, I am keeping afloat," he said happily, "and I can thank you for that. Yes, I can—" And he told them that he was busy with a turn in tar. He had contracts from a house in Bilbao. "But we will talk about this when you get back. Bon voyage!"

"If anything happens, wire me," said Ole.

Tidemand followed the couple to his door. Both Ole and Aagot were moved. He went to the window and waved to them as they passed; then he went back to his desk and worked away with books and papers. A quarter of an hour passed. He saw Aagot return alone; Ole had gone.

Tidemand paced back and forth, mumbling, figuring, calculating every contingency regarding this business in tar. He happened to see a long entry in the ledger which was lying open on his desk. It was Irgens's account. Tidemand glanced at it indifferently; old loans, bad debts, wine and loans, wine and cash. The entries were dated several years back; there were none during the last year. Irgens had never made any payments; the credit column was clean. Tidemand still remembered how Irgens used to joke about his debts. He did not conceal that he owed his twenty thousand; he admitted it with open and smiling face. What could he do? He had to live. It was deplorable that circumstances forced him into such a position. He wished it were different and he would have been sincerely grateful if anybody had come along and paid his debts, but so far nobody had offered to do that. Well, he would say, that could not be helped; he would have to carry his own burdens. Fortunately, most of his creditors were people with sufficient culture and delicacy to appreciate his position; they did not like to dun him; they respected his talent. But occasionally it would happen that a tailor or a wine-dealer would send him a bill and as like as not spoil an exquisite mood. He simply must open his door whenever anybody knocked, even if he were just composing some rare poem. He had to answer, to expostulate: What, another bill? Well, put it there, and I will look at it some time when I need a piece of paper. Oh, it is receipted? Well, then I will have to refuse to accept it; I never have receipted bills lying round. Take it back with my compliments….

Tidemand walked back and forth. An association of ideas made him think of Hanka and the divorce. God knows what she was waiting for; she kept to herself and spent all her time with the children, sewing slips and dresses all day long. He had met her on the stairs once; she was carrying some groceries in a bundle; she had stepped aside and muttered an excuse. They had not spoken to each other.

What could she be thinking of? He did not want to drive her away, but this could not continue. He was at a loss to understand why she took her meals at home; she never went to a restaurant. Dear me, perhaps she had no more money! He had sent the maid to her once with a couple of hundred crowns— they could not last for ever! He glanced in his calendar and noticed that it was nearly a month since he had had that settlement with Hanka; her money must have been used up long ago. She had probably even bought things for the children with that money.

Tidemand grew hot all of a sudden. At least she should never lack anything; thank God, one wasn't a pauper exactly! He took out all the money he could spare, left the office, and went up-stairs. The maid told him that Hanka was in her own little room, the middle room facing the street. It was four o'clock.

He knocked and entered.

Hanka sat at the table, eating. She rose quickly.

"Oh—I thought it was the maid," she stammered. Her face coloured and she glanced uneasily at the table. She began to clear away, to place napkins over the dishes. She moved the chairs and said again and again: "I did not know—everything is so upset—"

But he asked her to excuse his abrupt entrance. He only wanted to—she must have been in need of money, of course she must; it couldn't be otherwise; he wouldn't hear any more about it. Here—he had brought a little for her present needs. And he placed the envelope on the table.

She refused to accept it. She had plenty of money left. She took out the last two hundred crowns he had sent her and showed him the bills. She even wanted to return them.

He looked at her in amazement. He noticed that her left hand was without the ring. He frowned and asked:

"What has become of your ring, Hanka?"

"It isn't the one you gave me," she answered quickly. "It is the other one. That doesn't matter."

"I did not know you had been obliged to do that, or I would long ago—"

"But I was not obliged to do it; I wanted to. You see I have plenty of money. But it does not matter in the least, for I still have your ring."

"Well, whether it is my ring or not, you have not done me a favour by this. I want you to keep your things. I am not so altogether down and out, even if I have had to let some of my help go."

She bowed her head. He walked over to the window; when he turned back he noticed that she was looking at him; her eyes were candid and open. He grew confused and turned his back to her again. No, he could not speak to her of moving now; let her stay on awhile if she wanted to. But he would at least try to persuade her to cease this strange manner of living; there was no sense in that; besides, she was getting thin and pale.

"Don't be offended, but ought you not—Not for my sake, of course, but for your own—"

"Yes, I know," she interrupted, afraid of letting him finish; "time passes, and I haven't moved yet."

He forgot what he intended to say about her housekeeping eccentricities; he caught only her last words.

"I cannot understand you. You have had your way; nothing binds you any more. You can be Hanka Lange now as much as you like; you surely know that I am not holding you back."

"No," she answered. She rose and took a step toward him. She held out her hand to him in a meaningless way, and when he did not take it, she dropped it to her side limply, with burning cheeks. She sank into her chair again.

"No, you are not holding me back—I wanted to ask you—Of course, I have no right to expect that you will let me, but if you would—if I could remain here awhile yet? I would not be as I was before—I have changed a good deal, and so have you. I cannot say what I want to—"

His eyes blurred suddenly. What did she mean? For a moment he faltered; then he buttoned his coat and straightened his shoulders. Had he, then, suffered in vain during all these weary days and nights? Hardly! He would prove it now. Hanka was sitting there, but evidently she was beside herself; he had excited her by calling on her so "unexpectedly".

"Don't excite yourself, Hanka. Perhaps you are saying what you do not mean."

A bright, irrepressible hope flamed up within her.

"Yes," she exclaimed, "I mean every word! Oh, if you could forget what I have been, Andreas? If you would only have pity on me! Take me back; be merciful! I have wanted to come back for more than a month now, come back to you and to the children; I have stood here behind the curtains and watched you when you went out! The first time I really saw you was that night on the yacht—do you remember? I had never seen you until then. You stood by the tiller. I saw you against the sky; your hair was a little grey around the temples. I was so surprised when I saw you. I asked you if you were cold. I did it so you would speak to me! I know—time passed, but during all these weeks I have seen nobody but you—nobody! I am four and twenty years old, and have never felt like this before. Everything you do, everything you say—And everything the little ones do and say. We play and laugh, they cling to my neck…. I follow you with my eyes. See, I have cut a little hole in the curtain so that I can see you better. I can see you all the way to the end of the street. I can tell your steps whenever you walk down-stairs. Punish me, make me suffer, but do not cast me off! Simply to be here gives me a thousand joys, and I am altogether different now—"

She could hardly stop; she continued to speak hysterically; at times her voice was choked with emotion. She rose from the chair. She smiled while the tears rained down her face. Her voice trailed off into inarticulate sounds.

"For Heaven's sake, be calm!" he exclaimed abruptly, and his own tears were falling as he spoke. His face twitched. He was furious because he could not control himself better. He stood there and snapped out his words. He could not find the ones he sought. "You could always make me do whatever you wanted. I am not very clever when it comes to bandying words, no, indeed! The clique knows how to talk, but I haven't learned the art— Forgive me, I did not mean to hurt you. But if you mean that you want me to take somebody else's place now—If you want me as a successor—Of course, I do not know, but I ask. You say you want to come back now. But how do you come back? Oh, I don't want to know; go in God's name!"

"No, you are right. I simply wanted to ask you—I had to. I have been unfaithful to you, yes. I have done everything I shouldn't do, everything—"

"Well, let us end this scene. You need rest more than anything else."

Tidemand walked to the door. She followed him with wide-open eyes.

"Punish me!" she cried. "I ask you to—have pity! I should be grateful to you. Don't leave me, I cannot bear to have you go! Do not cast me off; I have been unfaithful and—But try me once more; try me only a little! Do you think I might remain here? I don't know—"

He opened the door. She stood still, her eyes dilated. From them shone the great question.

"Why do you look at me like that? What do you want me to do?" he asked. "Come to your senses. Do not brood over the past. I will do all I can for the children. I think that is all you can reasonably ask."

Then she gave up. She stretched her arms out after him as the door closed. She heard his steps down the stairs. He paused a moment as if uncertain which way to take. Hanka ran to the window, but she heard his office door open. Then all was quiet.

Too late! How could she have expected otherwise? Good God, how could she have expected otherwise! How she had nourished that vain hope night and day for a whole month! He had gone; he said no, and he went away. Most likely he even objected to her staying with the children!

Mrs. Hanka moved the following day. She took a room she saw advertised in the paper, the first room she came across; it was near the Fortress. She left home in the morning while Tidemand was out. She kissed the children and wept. She put her keys in an envelope and wrote a line to her husband. Tidemand found it upon his return; found the keys and this farewell, which was only a line or two.

Tidemand went out again. He sauntered through the streets, down toward the harbour. He followed the docks far out. A couple of hours went by, then he returned the same way. He looked at his watch; it was one o'clock. Suddenly he ran across Coldevin.

Coldevin stood immovable behind a corner and showed only his head. When he saw Tidemand coming straight toward him he stepped out in the street and bowed.

Tidemand looked up abstractedly.

And Coldevin asked:

"Pardon me, isn't this Mr. Irgens I see down there—that gentleman in grey?"

"Where? Oh, yes, it looks like him," answered Tidemand indifferently.

"And the lady who is with him, isn't that Miss Lynum?"

"Perhaps it is. Yes, I fancy that is she."

"But wasn't she going away to-day? It seems to me I heard—Perhaps she has changed her mind?"

"I suppose she has."

Coldevin glanced swiftly at him. Tidemand looked as if he did not want to be disturbed. He excused himself politely and walked off, lost in thought.