Ticket No. "9672"

CHAPTER VI.

“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.

The prospect was not very cheer­ing, cer­tain­ly, for the wind was blow­ing a gale, and the stranger con­clud­ed not to ven­ture out. Still he did not waste his time. With his pipe in his mouth he walked about the inn as if try­ing to fa­mil­iar­ize him­self with the ar­range­ment of the in­te­ri­or. He vis­it­ed all the dif­fer­ent rooms, ex­am­ined the fur­ni­ture, and peered in­to cup­boards and side­boards with as much cool­ness as if he had been in his own house.

Though the man was sin­gu­lar in ap­pear­ance, his ac­tions were cer­tain­ly even more sin­gu­lar. Fi­nal­ly he seat­ed him­self in the big arm-​chair, and pro­ceed­ed to ques­tion Dame Hansen in a curt, al­most rude tone. How long had the inn been built? Was it her hus­band that built it, or did he in­her­it it? How much land was there around it, and what was the ex­tent of the ad­join­ing _souter_? Was the inn well pa­tron­ized, and did it pay well? How many tourists came there on an av­er­age dur­ing the sum­mer? Did they usu­al­ly spend one or sev­er­al days there? etc., etc.

It was ev­ident that the stranger had not looked at the reg­is­ter that had been placed in his room, for that would have giv­en him all the in­for­ma­tion he de­sired up­on this last point.

In fact, the book was still on the ta­ble where Hul­da had placed it the evening be­fore, and the trav­el­er's name was not in it.

“I do not un­der­stand how and why these mat­ters can in­ter­est you, sir,” said Dame Hansen at last; “but if you wish to know the state of our busi­ness, noth­ing could be eas­ier. You have on­ly to ex­am­ine the reg­is­ter, in which you would great­ly oblige me by en­ter­ing your name ac­cord­ing to cus­tom.”

“My name? I will write my name in it, cer­tain­ly. I will write it there be­fore I leave, which will be im­me­di­ate­ly af­ter break­fast, as I am anx­ious to get back to Dram­men by to-​mor­row evening.”

“Dram­men!” re­peat­ed Dame Hansen, hasti­ly.

“Yes. Will you give me my break­fast as soon as pos­si­ble?”

“Do you live in Dram­men?”

“Yes. May I ask if there is any­thing as­ton­ish­ing about the fact that I re­side in Dram­men?”

So, af­ter spend­ing scarce­ly twen­ty-​four hours in Dal, or rather at the inn, the trav­el­er left with­out mak­ing the slight­est ef­fort to see any­thing of the sur­round­ing coun­try, Gous­ta, and Rjukan­fos, and the won­ders of the val­ley of the Ves­fjord­dal were en­tire­ly ig­nored.

It cer­tain­ly could not have been for plea­sure that he left Dram­men, so he must have come on busi­ness, and the sole ob­ject of his vis­it seemed to have been a care­ful ex­am­ina­tion of Dame Hansen's es­tab­lish­ment.

It was plain to Hul­da that her moth­er was deeply trou­bled, for she seat­ed her­self in her big arm-​chair, and push­ing aside her spin­ning-​wheel, re­mained there silent and mo­tion­less.

In the mean­time the trav­el­er had gone in­to the din­ing-​room and seat­ed him­self at the ta­ble. Though the break­fast was as care­ful­ly pre­pared as the din­ner of the evening be­fore, it seemed to give no bet­ter sat­is­fac­tion; and yet the guest eat and drank in the same leisure­ly fash­ion. His at­ten­tion seemed to be chiefly be­stowed up­on the sil­ver--a lux­ury high­ly prized among Nor­we­gian peas­ants, where the few forks and spoons which are hand­ed down from fa­ther to son are care­ful­ly pre­served with the fam­ily jew­els.

Mean­while the _skyd­skarl_ bus­ied him­self with his prepa­ra­tions for de­par­ture; and by eleven o'clock the horse and kar­iol were stand­ing be­fore the door of the inn.

The weath­er was still threat­en­ing; the sky was dull and over­cast, and now and then big drops of rain dashed against the win­dow-​panes; but this trav­el­er with his heavy cloak lined with sheep-​skin was not a man to wor­ry about the weath­er.

Break­fast over, he called for one more glass of brandy, light­ed his pipe, and put on his coat, then step­ping out in­to the hall he called for his bill.

“I will make it out im­me­di­ate­ly,” replied Hul­da, seat­ing her­self at a small desk.

“Be quick about it,” said the trav­el­er. “And now,” he added, “you had bet­ter bring me your book so I can write my name in it.”

Dame Hansen rose and left the room to get the reg­is­ter, which, on her re­turn, she placed up­on the large ta­ble.

The stranger picked up a pen and took one more long look at Dame Hansen over his spec­ta­cles; then he wrote his name in a large, round hand, and closed the book.

Just at that mo­ment Hul­da hand­ed him his bill. He took it, ex­am­ined each item sep­arate­ly, and then pro­ceed­ed to add up the fig­ures, grum­bling all the while.

“Hum!” he ex­claimed. “This is very dear! Sev­en marks and a half for a night's lodg­ing and two meals!”

“You for­get the _skyd­skarl_ and the horse,” re­marked Hul­da.

“Nev­er­the­less, I think your charge very high. I re­al­ly don't see how you can ex­pect to pros­per if you are so ex­or­bi­tant in your charges.”

“You owe me noth­ing, sir,” said Dame Hansen, in a voice that trem­bled so that it was scarce­ly au­di­ble.

She had just opened the reg­is­ter and read the name in­scribed up­on it, and now tak­ing the bill and tear­ing it up, she re­peat­ed:

“You owe me noth­ing.”

“That is ex­act­ly my opin­ion,'” replied the stranger.

And with­out bid­ding them good-​bye on his de­par­ture any more than he had bid­den them good-​day on his ar­rival, he climbed in­to his kar­iol, and the _skyd­skarl_ jumped up­on the board be­hind him. A few sec­onds lat­er he had dis­ap­peared around a turn in the road. When Hul­da opened the book she found there on­ly this name--

“Sand­go­ist, from Dram­men.”