PAGE 17
One Day
by
All the little sleigh-bells accompanied the song, like the twitter of sparrows. His voice echoed through the trees, the religious service of a human soul in the white halls.
One day, felt Ella, paid for a thousand. One day may do what the winter song relates. It may rock a weary summer, destroy its germs of ill, renew the earth, make the nerves strong, and the darkest time bright. In it are collected all our long dreams. What might she not have become, poor little thing that she was, if she had had many such days? What would she not then have become, for her children.
They now drew near to a long building with two wings; the whole built of wood. In the courtyard a number of sledges were standing. There were a great many people here then! A stableman took their horses; the waiter who was to attend to them, a German, was quickly at hand, and a bareheaded jovial man joined them as well–it was Peter Klausson. He seemed to have been expecting them, and wished to relieve Ella of her wraps, but he smelt of cognac or something of the sort, and to get rid of him she inquired for the room in which they were to lunch. They were shown into a warm cosy apartment where the table was laid. Aaroe helped her off with her things.
“I could not endure Peter Klausson’s breath,” she said, at which Aaroe smiled.
“In America we have a remedy for that.”
“What do you mean?”
“One takes something which scents the breath.”
A moment later he asked her to excuse him. He had to arrange a few things. She was thus alone until some one knocked at the door. It was Peter Klausson again. He saw her astonishment and smiled.
“We are to lunch together,” he said.
“Are we?” she replied.
She looked at the table; it was laid for five.
“Have you heard lately from your husband?”
“No.”
A long pause. Was Peter Klausson fit company for Aksel Aaroe? Her husband’s boon companion! Aaroe, who will have nothing but what is genuine. But as she thought this, she had to admit that Peter Klausson’s impulsive nature was perfectly truthful, which indeed it was. The waiter came in with a basket of wine, but did not shut the door after him until he had lifted in some more from outside: champagne in ice.
“Shall we want so much wine?” asked Ella.
“Oh, it’s all right,” answered Peter Klausson, evidently delighted.
“But Aaroe does not drink wine!”
“Aaroe? When he asked me to come here to-day–I chanced to look in on him–we had some first-rate cognac together.”
Ella turned to the window, for she felt that she had grown pale.
Very soon Aaroe came in, so courteous and stately that Peter Klausson felt compelled to take his hands out of his pockets. He hardly dared to speak. Aaroe said that he had invited the Holmbos, but they had just sent an excuse. They three must make the best of each other’s society. He led Ella to the table.
It was soon evident that Aaroe was the most delightful and accomplished of hosts. He spoke English to the waiter, and directed him by frequent signs, covered his blunders, and smoothed away every little difficulty, in such a way that it was hardly noticed. All the time he kept up a constant flow of conversation, narrating small anecdotes from his experiences of society, but he never poured out wine for himself, and when he raised his glass his hand shook. Ella had fancied before that this was the case–it was torture to her now.
Oysters were served for the first course; she relished them thoroughly, for she was very hungry; but as the meal proceeded, she became each moment less able to enjoy it. At last her throat seemed to contract, she felt more inclined to cry than to eat and drink.
At first the reason was not clear to her. She only felt that this was absolutely different from what she had dreamed of. This glorious day was to be a disappointment. At first she thought–this will end some time, and we shall go comfortably home again. But by degrees, as his spirits rose, she became merely the guest of a society man. As such she was shown all imaginable attention–indeed, the two gentlemen joined in making much of her, till she could have cried.